


any thrill will do

by jessalae



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Beast (The Magicians), Anal Sex, Anonymous Sex, Aphrodisiacs, Body Paint, Body Worship, Casual Sex, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Feelings Confession, First Time Bottoming, Hair-pulling, Jealousy, Love Bites, Miscommunication, Multi, Mutual Pining, Obedience, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Orgy, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Quentin Coldwater's Canonical Oral Fixation, Questionable Use of Horomancy, Relationship Negotiation, Riding, Rimming, Sensory Deprivation, Sex Magic, Simultaneous Orgasm, Slow Burn, Spitroasting, Strip Games, Threesome - M/M/M, Under-negotiated Kink, Virginity Kink, Voyeurism, Zero-gravity sex, encanto oculto, idiots to lovers, mild biphobia, mild dubcon, psychic magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-11 09:22:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 75,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28468983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae
Summary: Finally, Eliot says, “Quentin.” He turns to look him in the eye, his face settling into a casual smile. “We’re friends, right? We know each other pretty well?”“Ye-es?” Quentin says.“And you’re a brave boy,” Eliot says. “Open to delving into the unknown. Looking for your next great adventure.”“I, uh.” That isn’t how Quentin wouldnormallydescribe himself, but somehow — with Eliot’s hazel eyes shining at him, the full force of his warm, encouraging energy focused on Quentin’s face — he sits up a little straighter, and says, “Sure, I guess.”“Great,” Eliot says brightly, “so how would you like to pretend we’re dating for a week so we can get into the most secretive magical couples’ party of the modern era?”(Complete!)
Relationships: Eliot Waugh/Original Character(s), Margo Hanson/Original Character(s), Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Original Character(s)
Comments: 231
Kudos: 257
Collections: Peaches and Plums Stockings 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freneticfloetry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freneticfloetry/gifts).



> This gift is really part gift and part IOU, because this fic EXPLODED into a legitimate long fic. I have almost all of it written, at this point, and plan to update weekly. There will be fluff, humor, a metric fuckton of smut, and some amount of angst, but ultimately a happily ever after. Thank you thank you thank you for this most delicious of plot bunnies, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Expanding on the Mild Dubcon tag: This fic is set at Encanto Oculto, and the characters will frequently be having sex while under the influence of alcohol, drugs, magic, etc., which could by definition be considered dubcon. No character will have sex while so out of it that they can't consent, and in my mind all sexual encounters in this fic have the full and enthusiastic consent of all parties involved; I hope that comes through in the text as well. Please keep this note in mind if this is something you're sensitive to, and take care of yourself. I won't be warning for individual instances of drunk/stoned/magically whammied sex, this overall note is your alert for the whole fic.
> 
> A zillion thanks to Sylph for betaing and cheer-reading and Bridget for cheer-reading and brainstorming. Title is from "Someone New" by Hozier, found for me by Sylph.

Like so many things in Quentin's life, it starts with a mistake. With him being somewhere he shouldn't. Specifically, in this case, hovering nervously halfway up the stairs to Eliot's attic room, trying to determine if the conversation he can half-hear Eliot and Margo having is one that they'd welcome him interrupting.

It’s a little bit of a miracle that that’s even a thing he can wonder about. For the vast majority of his life, the answer to "Do these exceedingly suave, glamorous, brilliant, beautiful people want me, Quentin Coldwater, involved in their Wednesday evening?" had either been a _resounding_ no, or like, maybe some hysterical and pitying laughter. But apparently in this new reality Quentin’s been living in for the past few months, where magic is a thing and he has it, the answer can be a tentative maybe.

And it looks like it’s a yes tonight, as Margo’s voice rings out from above: “Quentin! Stop fucking lurking and get your ass in here!”

Quentin only jumps a little bit. Then he heads up into Eliot’s room, which it appears has… exploded?

Or maybe just Eliot’s closet has exploded, because every surface is covered in clothes. Many, many clothes. And not Eliot’s usual mouth-wateringly crisp button downs and should-make-him-look-like-a-douche-but-just-make-him-look-unbelievably-fuckable vests, either. Shorts. Breezy linen shirts. Swim trunks. A— harness? Of some kind? It’s leather, there are straps and metal buckles and some kind of chain situation, where on your body do you even _wear_ that?

Quentin is beginning to think that obeying Margo was a mistake. (It often is, it seems. But he can’t stop himself from doing it, most of the time. She is _scary_.) He shouldn’t have come upstairs. Whatever this is, it’s an Eliot-and-Margo thing. Quentin shouldn’t, he shouldn’t be here.

Quentin _especially_ should not be here because Eliot is stepping out of his spelled-to-be-a-walk-in closet in a gauzy silver robe thing over _very_ short dark blue shorts, hair perfectly tousled, a beautiful frown on his beautiful face. “I could swear these were more of a navy blue,” he says, “but they’re practically cobalt. They’ll throw off my whole day three color palette, I’ll need to either rethink or buy something new. Hi, Q.”

“Hi,” Quentin says, aiming for anywhere near his regular tone of voice, frantically calculating how many times he’s allowed to look up and down Eliot’s body before it becomes officially weird. “What’s, uh. What’s happening? In here?”

“Inventory,” Margo says, digging through a pile of brightly-colored spandex and unearthing another pair of tiny shorts, which are a slightly different shade of blue. “These are the navy ones, El.”

“Oh thank god,” Eliot says, holding up a hand and catching the shorts as Margo tosses them to him. “I did _not_ want to try and find something else that wouldn’t compete with this wrap.” 

Quentin finds a seat on a corner of the bed, moving a pile of sunglasses gingerly to one side. “Inventory of what?”

“All my beach and festival wear,” Eliot says, like _inventorying one’s beach and festival wear_ is a thing that most people do at the beginning of November. “I’ve left my packing far too late, we leave on Friday afternoon.”

“Leave?” Quentin winces internally at how pathetic his voice sounds — but that’s how he feels, his stupid soft little heart wilting at the thought of his friends going somewhere without him. He should be used to it, should have expected it. “Where are you going?”

“Encanto Oculto,” Margo says dreamily. “Best party of the year.”

“Best party of all _time_ ,” Eliot says. “It’s a Magicians-only festival in Ibiza. A solid week of magic, art, food, drinks, drugs, basking on the beach. And, obviously, having endless mind-blowing sex with gorgeous people from all over the world.” He shrugs, smirking at Quentin. “Like Spring Break, but with some modicum of class.”

Quentin nods slowly. He’s never heard of this, but he’s never heard of _any_ magic things except what he gets taught in class, pretty much, and a solid week of mind-blowing magical sex and drugs hadn’t made the first year curriculum here, somehow. “Sounds fun,” he says, because what else do you say?

“It’s heaven.” Eliot turns his attention back to the navy shorts, inspecting them closely. “These do go with the wrap, right, Bambi? I feel like I’m losing all sense of colors, I’ve been staring at outfits for so long.”

“Try them on and see,” Margo says. “If I say yes and you disagree with me once we get there I’ll never hear the fucking end of it.”

“Point,” Eliot says, and his hands go to the drawstring of the shorts he’s currently wearing.

Quentin— doesn’t squeeze his eyes shut, that would be an immense fucking giveaway, but it’s really, really close. He looks down at the pile of sunglasses, trying to pretend he’s suddenly very interested in the subtle differences between three identical-looking pairs. He stares until his eyes are watering, until Eliot says, “Oh that’s _much_ better,” which probably means it’s safe to look up.

The too-cobalt shorts are in Eliot’s hand, and the navy ones are on his body. His tall, lean, body. His body that Quentin — is not obsessed with, really. Not any more than anyone would be obsessed with a, just, extremely extremely hot person. Who seems to enjoy Quentin's company, and gets very touchy-feely when drunk, and laughs at Quentin’s dumb jokes, and has just _miles_ of leg and a wardrobe that shows off every inch of them, and— 

Quentin’s the _normal_ amount of obsessed. The like, jerk off thinking about it just a couple times a week amount of obsessed. He has other fantasies, still, that he can rely on to get him going, but his fantasies about Eliot are— they’re just _better_ , hotter, so it’s really understandable that they’re the ones Quentin keeps gravitating towards, more and more, right? That amount of obsessed.

Quentin looks back at the sunglasses before Eliot or Margo can catch him staring at how gorgeously tight those shorts are across Eliot’s perfect ass. He doesn’t know about _much better_ , the other shorts looked just fine to him, but these are, definitely — they’re good. Very good. A+, 10 out of 10, two thumbs up from the guy who knows zero about fashion but a whole lot about wanting to grab Eliot’s butt.

“Great,” Margo says. “Now can we _please_ move on to day four?”

“I sat through your entire crisis about espadrilles last week, Bambi, so you can do me the courtesy of letting me take my time picking the most important twenty outfits I’ll wear all year.”

Quentin frowns. “I thought you said this thing was a week long?”

Eliot and Margo look at him. “Yeah?”

“A week meaning, like, seven days?” Quentin frowns harder at their blank stares. “Not twenty?”

They look at him for a long moment, then Eliot’s mouth splits into a huge grin. “Ah, Q,” he sighs. “I needed that laugh. Thank you.” He steps back into the closet, still talking over his shoulder. “Seven days. Daytime and nighttime are entirely different atmospheres, so that’s fourteen. Three for weather contingencies, in case one of the designers decides it’d be cute to have a magical monsoon. One for arriving, one for leaving. And at least one that’s something of a stretch goal, a little more risque than I’d normally go, if I meet someone I want to show off for.”

The shorts and the grey wrap come flying out of the closet. Margo retrieves them and folds them carefully, tucking them into a purple hard-sided rolling suitcase. Quentin watches her do it because he has, truly, no idea where else it might be safe to put his eyes. Eliot is presumably _naked_ in his closet, hopefully putting on other clothes but what if those other clothes are this _more risque_ outfit he’s talking about? How do you even _get_ much more risque than what he was wearing a minute ago? Quentin _should not_ be here. It’s not good for his sanity, or his blood pressure, or the carpal tunnel he thinks he might be developing in his left wrist.

Instead of making his excuses and leaving, like any smart version of himself would do, he says, “I don’t think I even _own_ that many clothes.” Because— someone’s gotta be the comic relief in this friendship trio, right? He can do that. And maybe if he does, Eliot will smile again like he did a second ago, big and delighted.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Margo sighs. She chucks him under the chin, her perfectly red lips quirked in a smile. “We’ll take you on a real shopping trip sometime soon. See what happens if we put you in some clothes that actually _fit_ and don’t look like they came from the Land’s End outlet ten years ago.”

“Nah, I’m good.” Quentin pulls his hands into the sleeves of his sweater, _not_ defensively, just— it’s _comfy_ , okay?

Eliot reemerges from the closet, and Quentin again avoids closing his eyes, somehow. But it’s fine, Eliot’s wearing a pretty normal pair of white shorts embroidered with little colorful somethings, plus a soft white short-sleeved button-down, open in the front, but that’s fine, Quentin’s seen Eliot’s chest enough by now that he’s not like, _immediately_ hard over it. Not like those first few times.

“You’d manage,” he tells Quentin magnanimously. “Honestly, half of what I pack gets taken off about ten minutes after I put it on.” He smirks, and Quentin’s heart goes _thump-thump_. “And that’s on a bad day.”

“I’m sure you won’t have too many of those,” Quentin says, which is — nonsense? Maybe? Maybe a giveaway? Eliot has turned around to face the mirror and apparently the back of this seemingly innocuous shirt is _sheer_ , the whole broad plane of Eliot’s shoulders exposed, the dimples in his back visible above the waistband of his shorts, which _again_ fit _immaculately_ over his ass, so— Quentin didn’t put a whole lot of thought into that last comment.

“He doesn’t, historically,” Margo says. “El gets dick for _days_ at Encanto.”

Something grouchy and a little bit wild unfurls in the depths of Quentin’s chest, spiky heat and a little voice growling _mine_. Absurdly. Inexplicably. How Quentin could even think, how even the most hormone-addled part of him could _dream_ — fuck, he’s glaring at Margo, that wasn’t the plan. “Uh. Yeah, uh, makes— makes sense,” he says, trying to smooth out his expression. Look, like, neutral. Or scared? He can do scared.

Margo, for her part, is glaring back at him, a little. Or no, not glaring exactly — assessing? Considering? Quentin feels like a very small, fuzzy rabbit who has just realized it’s been noticed by a hawk.

“What are your plans for fall break, Coldwater?” she asks.

“Oh, um,” Quentin says. He sighs: resignation mixed with relief. “Staying here. My dad’s visiting one of his college buddies, and it doesn’t really make sense for me to just, sit around his house on my own, so.” He grabs a pillow, knocking over a pile of gauzy shirts, and hugs it to his chest, trying to look relaxed. 

“Eliot,” Margo says slowly, eyes still locked on Quentin. “I have a suggestion.”

“Oh?” Eliot asks, turning to face them. Quentin looks towards him, hoping for some unknown reason that this will be a less terrifying place to put his eyes, but Eliot’s swapped the sheer-backed shirt for a crop top, also white, tight across his shoulders and ending just below the thatch of chest hair across his pecs, baring a huge expanse of lean stomach. He looks away again quickly, staring first at his own hands, then at the floor, then, when the silence stretches on, daring to look back up at Margo.

There’s some kind of silent debate happening, a flurry of expressions passing between her and Eliot. Quentin’s not sure if they know some actual, like, mind-speech technique he hasn’t learned yet, or if they just have the kind of best friends vibe where they don’t even really have to use words. Margo’s got an eyebrow quirked against Eliot’s skeptical expression.

“Why,” Eliot asks, finally.

“You know,” she responds.

“Yes, but _you_ know as _well_ —”

“I _do_ , which is why I _know_. Just like with that thing.”

“This is _not_ like that thing, that was— an entirely different situation.”

“It was _completely_ the same situation,” Margo says, holding up a hand. “Two words: Arima Bikotea.”

Quentin doesn’t _think_ that was a spell, but it changes the entire atmosphere of the room anyway. Eliot shifts his weight, rests one long index finger against his cheek. “Now that _is_ a good point,” he says.

“Of course it is,” Margo says triumphantly. “I was right then, and I’m right now.”

“But if—”

“No buts. No ifs.” Margo quirks her _other_ eyebrow.

Another moment of silence settles over the room. Quentin looks back and forth between his friends, feeling like he’s watching a tennis match where the ball is invisible.

Finally, Eliot says, “Quentin.” He turns to look him in the eye, his face settling into a casual smile. “We’re friends, right? We know each other pretty well?”

“Ye-es?” Quentin says.

“And you’re a brave boy,” Eliot says. “Open to delving into the unknown. Looking for your next great adventure.”

“I, uh.” That isn’t how Quentin would _normally_ describe himself, but somehow — with Eliot’s hazel eyes shining at him, the full force of his warm, encouraging energy focused on Quentin’s face — he sits up a little straighter, and says, “Sure, I guess.”

“Great,” Eliot says brightly, “so how would you like to pretend we’re dating for a week so we can get into the most secretive magical couples’ party of the modern era?”

It’s a mistake. It’s a huge mistake, Quentin knows it’s a mistake, but unfortunately every cell in his body screams _YES_ in unison and he says, “Okay.”

Eliot looks minorly stunned, but Quentin’s too busy viciously berating his traitorous cells to wonder what that’s all about, and by the time he’s finished screaming _What the actual everloving fuck_ in his mind Eliot’s back to smiling. “Oh, good,” he says casually. “This will be fun.”

“Uh,” Quentin says, his head ringing with simultaneous excitement and pants-wetting terror.

“It’s going to be _so_ much fun,” Margo says, clapping her hands together with delight. “Oh, babe, we’re going to have to take you shopping _immediately._ What classes do you have tomorrow?” Before Quentin can answer, she shakes her head dismissively. “What am I saying, it doesn’t matter. We can work around it. I’ll go ahead in the morning, scout things out, and you two can come in the afternoon and hit anything I find that’s promising.”

“Can I, uh,” Quentin blurts out. “Can I get some like, more details? Maybe? On what, uh. What I just signed myself up for?”

Eliot smiles at him. “You’ll come to Encanto with us,” he says. “I’ll write tonight and let the elders know I’m bringing a paramour. The first four days, we can just enjoy ourselves, take in the festival. Day five we’ll rest up, and then the party is that night. Recovery on day six, end of festival celebrations happen on day seven, and then you’ll have a full three days of break to readjust back to normal life.”

 _Paramour?_ “Okay,” Quentin says. “You said there was like, art? Food, drinks, stuff? Along with, uh.” His salivary glands betray him, starting to work overtime at the thought of saying the words _mind-blowing sex_ to _Eliot, holy shit_ , and he has to stop and swallow.

“Yes. And, oh, sorry, don’t worry,” Eliot says, frowning with concern, “we won’t have to do anything sexual together. We probably won’t even have to kiss, if you’d rather not.”

Quentin’s only been on one really, _truly_ scary roller coaster, the kind where the g-force feels like it’s going to rip your skin off, the kind that makes devout atheists like him decide hey, what the hell, what can praying hurt, just this once? The emotional journey he’s gone on over the past three minutes makes that experience seem like a fucking kiddie ride that barely breaks five miles an hour. “But if we’re pretending we’re, um, together,” he says. “That’s like— that’s weird, right?”

“Not necessarily,” Eliot says. His hands go to the hem of his crop top, and he strips out of it in one motion, tosses it to the far side of the room. “Plenty of couples come to Encanto to get a break from each other. There’d be no point in going if you didn’t at least have a somewhat open relationship.” He laughs. “Maybe that’s our story, we’re going through a rough patch, and this is how I’m trying to win you back.”

“By fucking a dozen other people?” Margo asks skeptically.

“Every couple has their own way of working through issues.”

Margo scoffs. “Don’t set the boy up for failure, sweetie. Q, you'll probably have to kiss him.”

“Um. Yeah, I mean, that’s not a big deal,” Quentin lies.

“Good,” Eliot says smoothly. “Then you can go off and look at the art, sunbathe, do some fun magic. Bang whoever you want.” His eyes flash over Quentin briefly, down-up. Quentin can’t possibly hope to read the expression on his face.

“Okay, now _that_ would be some serious magic,” he says, with a laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Bullshit.” Eliot goes back to the sheer-backed shirt, puts it on again, experiments briefly with tying the loose corners of it in a knot across his stomach, grimaces into the mirror. “You’re cute. We’ll put you in some clothes that don’t do their absolute best to obscure that fact, maybe fix your hair a little—”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“—and there’ll be women lining up down the length of the beach and back to get some of that adorable little nerd cock.”

Quentin pulls his knees up to his chest, frowning, telling himself that the word _little_ in that sentence was modifying the word _adorable_ and not the word _cock_ , because— whatever, it doesn’t fucking matter, this is all pretend. Eliot doesn’t have any opinions about his cock. “I like my hair,” he insists, instead of getting into a fucking _literal dick-measuring contest_ like his shrieking hormones want him to.

“Then I’ll leave it alone,” Eliot says easily. He looks over his shoulder at Quentin, turns and steps up to him. His big hand floats towards Quentin’s face, cups his chin, as Eliot looks at him consideringly — in a manner not unlike a fucking medieval lord sizing up a horse he might want to buy, which, that should— really not be hot, at _all_ — “I like it too,” he says finally. “I’m sure there will be girls at Encanto who are into having something to grab on to.”

Quentin’s pretty sure he actually hears an electric pop of static as his brain blows a fuse. “We’ll see,” he says faintly. “So, uh, Friday afternoon? Do we, is there a portal, or…?”

“There’s a portal to another portal,” Margo says. “We’ll connect through Montreal. No direct jumps to Ibiza from the ass-end of upstate New York, but the travel nausea isn’t too bad with only one connection.”

“And if it is, they’ve got this _amazing_ hair-of-the-dog tonic that takes the edge right off,” Eliot says. “I’m _going_ to get the recipe this year, Bambi. I swear it.”

“You already blew the bartender last year, baby, and that didn’t work,” Margo says gently. “I don’t think you’re getting it.”

“I was off my game that day,” Eliot says firmly. “And you know I’ve picked up a new trick or two since then. Post-party recovery is going to be a _breeze_ from now on.”

Quentin really should’ve left before he got himself in incomparably deep shit — he probably should have never even come into the room, honestly — but he _definitely_ has to leave now. The idea of Eliot having _a new trick or two_ for blowjobs that, if _Eliot_ finds them new and impressive, Quentin can’t— he can’t even _imagine_ — but he’d _like_ to imagine— “I’m out of class at like, two tomorrow?” he says, easing himself carefully out of his seat, setting down the pillow and sidling towards the door. “So uh, I can go shopping then, or. Or whenever. You guys, uh, you know where to find me.” _In my room, probably just continuously jerking off until we leave._

“Hydrate and eat right,” Margo says sternly. “We don’t stop shopping until you’re dressed right to play the part of Eliot’s boytoy.”

First paramour, now boytoy. Quentin wonders how many embarrassing nicknames he’s going to pick up over the next week. Though if he makes it through the week and a nickname is the worst embarrassment he has to deal with — that would be, like, _phenomenal_. An unheard-of level of success.

He leaves just before Eliot slips out of the white embroidered shorts, heading down the stairs as quickly as possible without tripping over his own feet and falling flat on his face, and scurries to his room, where he sits on his bed, hugging his knees to his chest, trying not to rock back and forth like an absolute stereotype of an anxious mess. 

If he starts truly contemplating the scope of the disaster he’s just created for himself, he’ll end up having a panic attack for sure, so he can’t do that. He can’t pack, because Margo will probably throw out anything he picks anyway. And homework is a lost cause, with this on his mind. He’ll just— 

He thinks for a moment about that sheer-backed shirt, the way Eliot’s muscles had _rippled_ as he twisted around to evaluate Quentin’s hair and come to the conclusion that he _liked_ it, that it would be useful as something to _grab on to_.

He’ll just get a head start on that continuous jerking off, then.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re here for a week of unbridled hedonism and incomparable luxury,” Eliot says, “including in our accommodations. Make sure you relax and enjoy it. You may not see its like again.”

The travel nausea is maybe a little worse than advertised. Quentin stumbles, squinting as the brilliant Mediterranean sunset wavers in his vision, jaw clamped shut in an attempt to prevent the exodus of the two bites of lunch he’d made himself eat before they left. 

Broad hands on his waist, a warm, solid body against his back— “Careful, baby,” Eliot says, steadying Quentin against him. “Take it slow.”

Oh, so they’re— yeah, they’re starting that now. Like, now. Quentin takes a deep breath through his nose and makes his shoulders relax, hoping if Eliot can feel his pounding heartbeat he’ll assume it’s from the portal trip. “I’m good,” he says after a moment, once it’s mostly true, at least with regards to the nausea. “Just got kinda dizzy.”

“Happens to the best of us,” Eliot says soothingly. His hands leave Quentin’s waist, and Quentin considers pretending to faint to make them come back again. But then he’s stepped up beside Quentin, taking his hand — which, they’ve done this, Eliot is a very _tactile_ person, even with platonic friends he’s not attracted to, but usually he doesn’t _thread his fingers_ through Quentin’s quite like that, _squeeze_ reassuringly; surely that’s too small a motion for anyone else to even notice? of course he’d be a fucking _method actor_ about this, that’s just Quentin’s luck — and starting to lead him down the broad flagstone path. Quentin looks over his shoulder: their luggage is floating obediently along behind them, an inch or two off the ground. “We’ll get you settled in the villa to sleep it off, it’ll all feel better in the morning.”

For an international magical orgy-slash-art-festival, Encanto Oculto on arrival night has some distinctly summer camp vibes. There are banners hung in midair all along the pathway, reading things like _Welcome!_ and _Tribute presentation at the main pavilion!_ in letters that shimmer disconcertingly when Quentin looks away from them, a telltale sign of being enchanted to appear in whatever language the reader is most comfortable with. At every fork in the road, there’s a smiling staff member in an immaculately tailored uniform, ready to help direct festival-goers to the correct hotel or cabana, and they don’t _actually_ have clipboards and lanyards but it still feels like they _should_. People are greeting old friends with hugs, cheek kisses — mouth kisses — okay, definitely more ass grabs than at summer camp, but. The vibe is still there.

“Where did Margo go?” Quentin asks, as Eliot leads him past a huge tent with intense club music blaring out of the open sides. The dance floor inside it is maybe a third full.

“Off to the main pavilion to present our tribute to the elders,” Eliot says. “Easiest to get it out of the way tonight, when it’s less crowded.”

“Do we not— aren’t we supposed to be there?”

“We got permission for Margo to do it by herself, since we’re returning participants bringing along a virgin guest who will need some orienting.”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“Virgin to the _festival_ , Quentin, not overall.” Eliot steers him off the main path and between a couple of tall bushes covered in purple flowers. “It would be _extremely_ ill-advised for someone to try and have their first time here. This is advanced-level fucking.”

“Whatever _that_ means,” Quentin mutters.

“You’ll find out,” Eliot says, amusement in his voice, and stops walking.

They’ve reached what Quentin can only describe as a tiny version of a million-dollar Mediterranean villa: creamy white walls, a swooping archway over the door, red tile roof. Flowering vines grow from the window boxes and creep over the facade, their heady scent perfuming the night air.

“Watch carefully,” Eliot says, and traces a complex sigil on the front door. It opens with a click. “They’ll give you a key card if you ask, but it’s so much easier to just use the spell — especially since you won’t necessarily have any pockets to hold things in.”

The inside of the villa is just as gorgeous as the outside: a small living room, a breakfast nook next to an enormous window covered with breezy white curtains. Quentin can’t see out of it particularly well right now, since the sun has just about finished setting, but he’s pretty sure whatever the view is, it’ll be breathtaking.

“We had this same villa last year,” Eliot says from further into the building. Quentin blinks and follows the sound of his voice. “Two bedrooms — with our cover story we obviously couldn’t ask for three, but I don’t anticipate sleeping here much anyway, so you’ll have the bed to yourself most nights. Jack-and-jill bathroom. Make sure you knock first, Margo sometimes forgets to put a ward up if she’s got someone in the shower with her, and then she’ll inevitably invite you in to play with them and there goes the rest of your afternoon. Housekeeping will change the sheets and towels daily. Not very eco-friendly, but given the substances that tend to get on them, it’s really for the best.”

Quentin’s mouth works soundlessly, his brain trying desperately to catch up with this deluge of information as he surveys the bedroom he and Eliot are standing in. A _huge_ bed is the centerpiece of the space, bright white duvet and a completely absurd number of pillows making it look extremely tempting. The floor is covered in a plush Persian rug, and tasteful erotic art hangs on all the walls. Their suitcases have floated their way in here and hopped up onto a couple of luggage racks. Eliot has his open already and is sorting through swimwear, laying robes and caftans carefully out over the back of a leather armchair in the corner of the room.

“The toiletries they provide are honestly pretty good, you should try the almond oil conditioner. It’d be great for fine hair like yours.” Eliot glances up at him and grins at what Quentin assumes must be a comically wide-eyed expression on his face. “Aww. That’s the same face you were making the first time I saw you. Ah, the memories.”

Quentin doesn’t doubt it. He doesn’t know what he was expecting — actually, he’s been attempting to not expect anything for two days, afraid that if he thinks too hard about what this experience might be like he will either pass out or spontaneously orgasm or, somehow, both at once. “This is nicer than like. Anything I’ve ever seen,” he says.

“We’re here for a week of unbridled hedonism and incomparable luxury,” Eliot says, “including in our accommodations. Make sure you relax and enjoy it. You may not see its like again.”

There’s a photo on the wall of a man with tan skin and incredible abs, a slender length of rope wrapped in intricate patterns around his torso, binding his arms to his sides. The image is zoomed in so you can only see the midsection of the man’s body, a glimpse of jawline and long column of neck at one corner, the very tops of strong thighs and a hint of dark pubic hair at the other side of the canvas. Looking at it makes Quentin’s skin tingle, his palms sweat — but the alternative is looking at Eliot, here in this unbelievable bedroom that they’re going to be _sharing_ for an _entire week_ while _pretending they’re a couple_ , so. If he’s gonna get an awkward boner either way, he might as well get it from the marginally less incriminating source.

“I’m going to head out to one of the pregame parties, I think,” Eliot says. “You should stay here. I know it still feels like noon to you, probably, but it’s worth trying to sleep to get on island time.” He gestures at the nightstand, and Quentin looks over and sees a neat little silver tray with a line of small bottles. “Sleep-easy potions,” Eliot says. “Like melatonin, but magic instead of hormones. Far more useful than mints on your pillow. If you take one now, you’ll wake up around ten, and then you can start your real first day.”

“Uh-huh,” Quentin says. “And you’ll, will you be here? When I get up?”

“Maybe,” Eliot says nonchalantly. “Depends how the pregame party goes. If I’m not, head to the biggest culinary pavilion, I’ll find you there in the morning.” He finds what he was looking for in his suitcase — Quentin’s not sure what it is, but it’s made of stretchy gold fabric and is _very very small_ — and heads for the door Quentin figures is the bathroom. “Sleep well, mon amour,” he sing-songs. “We have a big week ahead of us.”

—

As promised, Quentin wakes up when there’s morning sunlight streaming through the blinds, sprawled across a mattress that feels like a fucking _cloud_ and buried under the huge marshmallow-y duvet. He feels like he should groan, maybe, at the injustice of no longer being asleep, but he feels— _great_ , actually. Refreshed, relaxed. That sleep-easy potion is a fucking miracle.

He rolls to his back, stretches, curls his toes into the zillion-thread-count sheets. Then he looks over at the other side of the bed: empty. Undisturbed. Eliot didn’t sleep here last night, apparently.

That’s fine, he reminds himself sternly. This is Eliot’s vacation, really. He, Quentin, is only along for the ride so Eliot can enjoy the week more fully. Who knows, he might not even see Eliot, some days, if he, uh. If things _go well_ for him. So he’d better — try and adjust, over the next few days, to whatever is happening here. Try and stop being so goddamn stunned by every detail of this place. Find ways to entertain himself, get something out of this, so he doesn’t spend the whole fucking time just _pining_ like the pathetic dumbass he is.

The almond oil conditioner is, in fact, really nice, and the towels are fluffy and silky-soft. Quentin opens the suitcase Margo packed for him and rolls his eyes heartily when he finds each outfit in its own cloth packing cube, labeled with tags that say things like _Day Three - nighttime_ and _Swimwear_ and _In case you want to show off that cute butt ;)_.

Once he’s dressed in his _Day One - daytime_ outfit (light blue shorts with a pattern of white tropical leaves, white polo that’s a little tighter than he’d normally choose, he definitely asked Margo to buy him a size up, but oh well) he pads out of the bedroom: no sign of Eliot or Margo. There’s a piece of paper on the table in the breakfast nook, though, weighed down under something small and silver.

> Q,
> 
> I’ll be at the culinary pavilion around noon. (My apologies for leaving you to your own devices until then — I’m a bit tied up at the moment.) I’m writing this note on the back of a festival map, so flip it over and it will lead you wherever your little heart desires. I recommend the artists’ beach as a good easy warm-up. I know you’ll be perfectly fine on your own, but just in case, keep my pocket watch with you. It’s already set on local time, but more importantly, Popper 52 will activate a minor locator spell on it so you can find me if there’s some kind of emergency. I stole one of your hair elastics for the same purpose.
> 
> — El

The artists’ beach is just down the main pathway, past half a dozen other little villas, two swimming pools, and what seems to be an open-air spa. A set of broad stairs carved into the stone cliffside lead down to a pebbled beach lined with rows of stalls. All along his journey, the trees are hung with ruby-red streamers and twinkling scarlet lights, and clusters of long-stemmed, many-petaled red flowers are planted at every junction. Quentin had found a _Welcome to Encanto Oculto!_ beginners' guide on the coffee table in their villa that explained how the areas of the festival are color-coded like a stoplight based on, essentially, how dirty things can get in full view of everyone. Red means keep your pants on, although those pants can be as short as you’d like. Yellow means clothes are optional and above-the-waist touching is fine. Green is where you can, in the words of the guide, “indulge in any carnal pleasures you can imagine, unburdened by taboos or restrictions.”

After studying the map, Quentin’s pretty satisfied he’ll be able to stay in Red zones if he wants, with maybe a foray or two into Yellow. The big culinary pavilion is in Red, the artist’s beach and a lot of the magic-related workshops are in that zone as well. There are pools, beaches, a sea-kayaking dock, all marked in Red. The volleyball court does appear to be in a Yellow area, but it’d be super uncomfortable to play sports with your junk hanging out, so people will definitely keep their clothes on for that.

He wanders through the stalls of the artists’ beach, stopping by a stall hung with glittering suncatchers and tinkling wind chimes, reading the placard on the display about the kinds of charms that can be embedded into them — protection charms, alarm spells, nature spells that encourage your garden to grow to its fullest potential. It doesn’t seem too busy, yet. Most of the stalls are unoccupied, the tall stools where an artist can sit and chat with passerby sitting empty. Quentin nods to the handful of people he passes, trying not to blush too obviously as a couple of absolutely stunning women walk by, arm in arm, wearing matching cream-colored shorts and nothing else. Red zone means pants on — but tops aren’t required for anyone of any gender. Which is only fair, really, but it’s still, it’s going to be— something he has to get used to.

When Eliot’s pocket watch says it’s noon, he follows the map to the culinary pavilion, and is halfway through a plate of incredible calamari when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“There you are, babe,” Eliot says, settling down on the bench beside him. He smoothes Quentin’s wind-blown hair back from his face, smiles softly. Quentin sits very still, finishing his bite of food to buy himself time to get his voice under control.

“Hey,” he says. “How was your morning?”

“Mm, _excellent_ ,” Eliot purrs. “I hope you got my note? My paper airplane spell isn’t always terribly accurate when I cast the one-handed version.”

“Yeah, it was in the kitchen,” Quentin said. “Why’d you have to cast one-handed?”

Eliot raises an eyebrow at him. “Like I said in the note,” he says, “I was a little tied up.”

“Oh,” Quentin says, then, “ _Oh_ ,” his eyes flashing to Eliot’s delicate wrists, not finding any— marks, or anything, but then there wouldn’t be, would there, if you were careful? He turns back to the safety of his calamari. “I’m guessing you had, uh. A good night, then.”

“Did he _ever_ ,” Margo says, sliding onto the bench across from them, carefully balancing a huge bloody mary in both hands. “I’m amazed you actually made it here at noon, I thought you’d still be chained to someone’s headboard.”

“I couldn’t leave my baby Q all alone at the big bad sex festival,” Eliot says. He moves closer on the bench, the heat of his body very noticeable through his gauzy blue shirt, and slides his arm around Quentin’s waist. His hand settles on Quentin’s hip. “Someone might run off with him.”

Quentin can’t scoot _away_ , that would be, that would be _really_ weird since they’re— _dating_. But the mental image of Eliot _chained to a headboard_ is, uh, it’s a lot— chained by the wrists, or like, in a _collar_ , or—? It doesn’t matter, fuck— and Quentin’s body is reacting like Quentin’s body is wont to do whenever he imagines Eliot naked and tied up. Which doesn’t happen _that_ often, Quentin’s like, mostly pretty vanilla, but Eliot has these long graceful limbs and really, who _hasn’t_ thought about using their best friend’s extensive necktie collection to tie them up, colorful silk against pale skin, and— anyway. Eliot’s fingers are close, far too close, to the evidence of said reaction. Quentin is very glad he dresses to the left. “I don’t want to mess up your vacation,” he says. “You should’ve stayed with— with whoever, if you wanted.”

“I didn’t want,” Eliot says smoothly. “I wanted to spend time with you.” He steals a bite of Quentin’s calamari. “How was the artists’ beach? Nice and calm?”

“Yeah, it was— really cool, actually,” Quentin says, thinking about the display of silk scarves with vibrancy and stain-resistance spells woven into them, the rich royal purple one he’d spotted and thought, _That’d look great on Eliot_. At the time he’d meant around his neck like an actual scarf, but now with the whole headboard thing, he’s thinking it wouldn’t look bad on his arms either— “Not a ton of people.”

“You heading back after lunch?” Margo asks, plucking a tiny cheeseburger off the rim of her glass and popping it into her mouth.

“Maybe. I kinda want to explore some of the other places. And there’s this workshop on sensory effect spells at — two, I think? — that sounds really interesting.”

Eliot and Margo are staring at him with pity in their eyes. “Quentin. Baby,” Eliot says. “Nobody comes to Encanto Oculto to go to the _workshops_.”

“They’re on the schedule, though. _Someone_ must go to them.”

“It’s gonna be all people who are either too old to get it up or who were real hotshots in school and feel desperately unfulfilled by their lives since then,” Margo says. “Snoozeville. Don’t do it.”

“Find literally anything else to do with your afternoon,” Eliot says, stretching out each syllable in lit-er-a-lly. 

Quentin pulls his beginners’ guide out of his pocket and frowns down at it. “But the description says—”

“Oh, god, don’t look at _that_ ,” Eliot says. He snatches the guide out of Quentin’s grasp, tosses it on the ground, twitches a finger, and the little brochure goes up in flames. Quentin stares at it as it crumbles to ash on the sand beneath their feet. “Bambi, we’ve been terrible friends.”

“Terrible,” Margo agrees through a mouthful of celery.

“We need to show our little Q the way to _actually_ enjoy this kind of festival.”

“Definitely.”

“So let’s go.” Eliot stands, holding a hand out to Quentin to help him up from the bench. He’s got Quentin’s hair elastic stretched around his wrist. “My deepest apologies, darling, for allowing you to stray so far from the garden path. Can I make it up to you?”

Quentin finishes his last bite of calamari, chewing slowly to buy himself time to think. Eliot looms above him, gigantic and beautiful, and he’s _seriously_ doing the fucking Aladdin do-you-trust-me hand out thing, and— 

Fuck. He’s here, isn’t he? Might as well get on the goddamn magic carpet. He grabs Eliot’s hand.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one thing yesterday has taught him beyond a doubt is that Encanto Oculto is, in fact, for sex. They’d been in the Red zone all day, and the topic had still come up constantly. Sure, there’s art and music and food and whatever. But at its heart, this event is a no-holds-barred magical orgy.
> 
> If Quentin were here by himself, he could happily stay in the non-sex parts of the festival the whole time. But Eliot — Eliot seems to want to spend time with him. Like, the-majority-of-the-day kind of time — Quentin doesn’t think that’s _really_ necessary to keep up their whole dating charade, but he guesses Eliot must think it is. And he is _not_ going to ruin Eliot’s vacation.

Quentin sits in the breakfast nook of the villa, sipping his room-service latte, considering the events of the previous day.

All in all, it hadn’t been— anything too scary? Like, lots of people, lots of social interaction, but the copious amounts of alcohol had helped with that, and mostly he’d just— hung out with Eliot and Margo. Which is what he does all the time. The only difference is that here he’s doing it on the beach, and by the pool, and _in_ the pool, and at various bars with various absurdly attractive bartenders that Eliot flirts with outrageously regardless of gender. (Margo had whispered to Quentin, at one point, “He will eat every pussy at this festival if that’s what it takes to get him that potion recipe,” and Quentin had choked on his mojito.) 

And then, sometime mid-afternoon, it had started happening:

A blonde woman wearing a red swimsuit and matching lipstick swam up to him in the pool, and asked if he’d like to join her and her friends at the Green pool down the road. (Quentin accidentally let go of the side of the pool in surprise and got water up his nose. Eliot politely declined on his behalf.)

A statuesque brunette with a dozen piercings in each ear caught his eye across the bar, smiled, and when he smiled back she crooked a finger at him, raising one eyebrow. (He shook his head _no_ , maybe _kind_ of frantically. Margo laughed so hard at his expression she snorted daiquiri out her nose.)

A woman with colorful tattoos on every limb and long purple hair talked about Welters and other various magical sports with them all the way through dinner, and then offered to show all three of them just how strong a roller derby player’s thighs really are. (Quentin was nicely tipsy by that point, so he did strongly consider it for a moment, but ultimately said no thank you. Margo, on the other hand, told them she’d see them later, and followed the woman off to her villa.)

There had been more, too, the whole day. Warm glances, drinks bought for him, elevator eyes all over the place. Propositions for just him, him and Eliot, him and Margo, their whole little trio. All of these people had been, just— beautiful. And Quentin wasn’t _not_ horny. A little voice in the back of his head that sounded a whole lot like undergrad Quentin — and high school Quentin, for that matter — had been screaming at him, _this doesn’t happen to us! People don’t just fucking_ offer _to have sex with us! For fuck’s sake, don’t fuck this up!_

But he was _bound_ to fuck it up, because the whole day, there had also been…

Eliot’s hand holding his, resting on his waist, on the small of his back, on the nape of his neck,

Eliot’s delighted laugh, his deep voice murmuring in Quentin’s ear as he explained the spell that powers a daytime fireworks show, 

Eliot taking off his shirt to get in the pool, diving in gracefully and emerging dripping wet, his swim trunks clinging to his legs — Eliot changing into his nighttime outfit, obscenely tight leather shorts and a sheer black v-neck,

And Quentin is moderately socially maladjusted, maybe, but he tries not to be a complete asshole, and it wouldn’t have been fair to any of those people to have sex with them when the entire time he’d just have been thinking, _Eliot, Eliot, Eliot._

He takes too big a sip of his latte in an attempt to finish it and coughs a little, swallows painfully, the liquid burning down his throat. Fucking stay-warm enchantments. He’ll have to order it iced tomorrow.

The one thing yesterday has taught him beyond a doubt is that Encanto Oculto is, in fact, for sex. They’d been in the Red zone all day, and the topic had still come up constantly. Sure, there’s art and music and food and whatever. But at its heart, this event is a no-holds-barred magical orgy.

If Quentin were here by himself, he could happily stay in the non-sex parts of the festival the whole time. But Eliot — Eliot seems to want to spend time with him. Like, the-majority-of-the-day kind of time — Quentin doesn’t think that’s _really_ necessary to keep up their whole dating charade, but he guesses Eliot must think it is. And he is _not_ going to ruin Eliot’s vacation.

Eliot came here for a week of mind-blowing sex, so, Quentin’s gonna make sure he gets to have that. He can handle some flirting, a little nudity. He can keep his shit together, and go along with what Eliot wants to do, for the sake of being a good friend. Maybe in a few days he’ll be sick of Eliot’s company, and manage to fuck someone without wishing the entire time he had his fingers wrapped in dark curls, a big hand holding firmly to the back of his neck, a deep voice purring that he’s a good boy—

“Morning,” he hears, and glances up to see a sleep-mussed Eliot wandering out of the bedroom. _Their_ bedroom. They’d slept _in the same bed_ last night. Yeah, the bed is enormous and Eliot had been _all_ the way on the far side of it, but those caveats don’t stop the thought from being a shock to his system.

“Morning,” he says back, smiling. Eliot’s cute with his curls all wild, his eyes soft. He’s wearing a knee-length satin robe, but not in a _come to my boudoir let me seduce you_ way, more in a _I will accept being awake right now but I’m certainly not going to put on fucking pants yet_ way, which is endearing as fuck. “How was dancing last night? And, uh. Anything else?” He swallows hard, but if he’s going to get through this, he’ll have to— he has to be able to like, _kind_ of talk about sex with Eliot.

“Wonderful and fairly wonderful,” Eliot says. He points to the latte Quentin had ordered for him, still steaming thanks to the keep-warm charms engraved into the room service tray. “For me?” Quentin nods. “You’re the best boyfriend.”

Quentin’s pulse skyrockets. “ _Fairly_ wonderful?” he asks, searching for a subject change and landing on just— the worst one possible.

“Hm?”

“I, uh. I just didn’t think you had anything less than. Great. Here, or, uh.” _Why_ did he already finish his coffee, he really really needs something to hide his burning face behind. “Anywhere.”

Eliot has leaned back against the counter, and now he crosses his long legs, baring a disastrous amount of thigh, and smirks at Quentin. “It’s all a matter of degrees, isn’t it? My _fairly wonderful_ is anyone else’s _mind-blowing_.” He sips his coffee. “How about you? Have a pleasurable night in?”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, still trying to process Eliot’s off-the-charts arrogance.

Eliot looks suddenly concerned. “You found the lube in the bedside table, right? I realized I didn’t tell you about that.”

Quentin blinks. “Uh. No? I didn’t— why? Would I, uh, need—?”

“For jerking off,” Eliot says, frowning like _Quentin_ is the one who’s saying shocking things, here.

Quentin needs to put his eyes— somewhere else. Not on Eliot’s face. Not on Eliot’s anywhere. He settles on staring at the silver room service tray. Maybe if he studies the spells engraved in it, he can ignore the twitch of interest that just shot through his groin. “I. Um.”

“Quentin, do _not_ tell me you spent an entire day at Encanto Oculto without even having _one_ orgasm,” Eliot says, sounding _scandalized_.

“No, I—” says Quentin, who had showered both last night and this morning and jerked off both times. That almond oil conditioner isn’t just good for hair; it’s also delightfully slippery, as it turns out. He takes a deep breath. “Actually I wanted to talk to you about that,” he blurts out, all in a rush.

Eliot goes very still, his mug of coffee halfway to his lips. “Oh?”

Quentin desperately wishes he’d had, like, ten more minutes to rehearse this speech in his head, but — who is he kidding. He could rehearse for a year and he still wouldn’t be coherent. “I had a great time yesterday, and— I feel like I, uh, kinda have the lay of the land a little better? Like I’m maybe. I’d want to check out some of the other zones?”

Eliot blinks, and then a grin spreads across his face. “My brave little toaster. You just had to reach a critical mass of gorgeous women hitting on you, hm? I’d love to show you the rest of the wonders this place has to offer,” he continues before Quentin can protest either the nickname or _whatever_ that other sentence meant. “You should go shave. _Carefully_ , not like you usually do. Then put on your day two outfit and present yourself for my approval.”

Why— why the fuck does Eliot have opinions about how he usually shaves? Quentin chooses to focus on that instead of _present yourself for my approval_ because _Jesus_. “And then what, I just… sit here for two hours until you’re ready to go?”

Eliot gives him a look, but waves a casual hand. “I’ll shower while you’re shaving. I’m not going to be wearing a _large_ quantity of clothing. You’ll be waiting a few minutes, if that.”

“Right,” Quentin says weakly. He shifts in his seat, trying to gauge how embarrassing it’s going to be to stand up, but luckily Eliot sets down his coffee and heads back towards the bedroom.

Quentin shaves _very very carefully, are you happy now, Eliot_ , for a long time, listening to the rush of the rainfall shower head and Eliot’s soft humming to himself. The mirror has anti-fog charms, but the rest of the room gets very steamy very fast — which is good, actually, because the shower has glass doors instead of a curtain, and it would be just, really easy for Quentin to glance over and— _look_. And he shouldn’t look, this is all just, it’s pretend, Eliot’s not _for him_.

Although. Probably he’ll see it anyway, sometime today, if they’re going to the other zones.

 _It_ being Eliot’s dick. Which the Brakebills rumor mill insists is of truly epic proportions. Not that Quentin, like, _sought out_ information about his friend’s genitals — it just, somehow he _heard_ , and then what was he supposed to do, _not_ incorporate that into his fantasies? He’s only human. Possibly the rumors are wrong — possibly Eliot started them himself to try and get more people into bed with him — actually, that seems likely — but there’s still some chance that they’re either true or only a little bit exaggerated, and Eliot’s dick is fucking _huge_. Like, makes your jaw ache just looking at it, scares off all but the bravest bottoms, this-guy-should-be-in-porn huge. Which— Quentin doesn’t have any real _hands on_ experience with massive dicks, but you don’t have to have experience to know what you like, and: that. That’s what Quentin likes. So if the rumors are true… he’s going to have to keep himself under control, because just because he gets to _see_ it doesn’t mean Eliot wants him to, to _touch_ , or any of the other million things Quentin has imagined in the safety of his dorm room with his cock in his hand—

His thoughts swirl like a desperately horny hurricane as he pulls on a pair of cuffed burgundy shorts and a short sleeve button-down that — shouldn’t there be more buttons on this thing? There’s like, kind of a lot of his chest visible this way. Oh well. He tucks Eliot’s enchanted watch into his pocket, and somehow keeps his composure through Eliot looking him slowly up and down, walking around him in a circle like a goddamn tiger wearing a bath towel and a smirk (and no, that mental image makes no fucking sense, but. That’s what he’s like.) and declaring his approval.

“Maybe we hit a bar first?” Quentin calls towards the bedroom, studying the festival map from the safety of the breakfast nook. “I could maybe use some, uh. Liquid courage, you know?”

“Of course. Do you want anything stronger?”

“Stronger?”

“Drugs, Quentin,” Eliot says, emerging in a like, jumpsuit? Thing? Burgundy to coordinate with Quentin’s shorts, with a deep v-neck. Quentin’s hair tie is around one of his ankles, today. “Chill you out a little bit, maybe? You’re pretty jumpy.”

“I’m always jumpy,” Quentin says, as they set off.

“And _I_ find that very appealing, but you may want to exude a little more confidence if you’re planning to get laid,” Eliot says. “Don’t worry, all the substances here are enchanted to make sure they won’t impede your ability to get it up.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Quentin grumbles. Or he hadn’t been, not until _right now_. God, what a fucking way to embarrass yourself at a sex festival.

They depart from the main path, hand in hand, down through an area where the banners floating in the air are golden yellow instead of ruby red. Honeysuckle and buttercups line the sides of the walkways. The number of people around sharply increases, and the amount of clothing said people are wearing sharply decreases. There’s no safe place to put his eyes, so Quentin just kind of— accepts his fate, and looks openly. Encanto appears to be a real cross-section of humanity, if humanity were, without exception, fucking hot as hell. There are people of all shapes, sizes, skin tones; quantities of body hair from none to nearly full coverage; every possible variety of tits, asses, dicks, thighs, abs, and _all of them are gorgeous_ and _Quentin is allowed to look_. It’s like — so much of a good thing he can’t even quite process it. He tries not to cling too tightly to Eliot’s hand, but the combination of anxiety and arousal make it hard to resist squeezing just a little to get a reassuring squeeze back.

The drink Eliot orders him is amazing, the joint he procures equally so. Quentin lounges in a double-wide deck chair by one of the Yellow zone pools, savoring it, basking in the warm sun and the ocean breeze.

The couple on a chair next to him were cuddling when he sat down a few minutes ago, and Quentin glances lazily to the side and realizes that cuddling has… progressed, somewhat. They’re both topless, one in a speedo-style swimsuit that’s struggling to contain a pretty nice erection, the other fully naked, throwing her head back as her partner mouths at her neck and palms her breasts.

He’s about to look quickly away, and probably like — apologize, just, to the air, or whatever, just in case, when he realizes the person on the far side of the amorous couple is watching as well, toying with the string of her bikini top, biting at her lower lip. Across the pool, someone else has taken off their sunglasses to get a better view.

“Welcome to the Yellow zone,” Eliot murmurs, and Quentin would've jumped about a foot if he didn’t have the perfect amount of alcohol and weed fizzing through his system, smoothing out the edges of everything. As it is, his heart just leaps, then settles comfortably back into its normal place. “Move over.”

Quentin obliges, and Eliot hands him another joint as he settles himself on his side, his body curled towards Quentin’s like they’re spooning but not quite touching. “So we can just— watch?” Quentin asks, keeping his voice low.

“We can,” Eliot confirms. “They’d go somewhere more private if they didn’t want people to see. A room, or one of the tents.”

“But they can’t, uh.” Quentin loses his words a little as the couple shifts, fingers tangling in each other’s hair as they kiss deeply.

Eliot is smart, though. He gets it. “Not here. In the Green zone, they could. Here it’s above the waist only.” He chuckles, the sound of it running through Quentin like syrup injected into his veins. “There are plenty of fun things to do even within those limits. Not all intimacy has to lead to orgasms immediately.”

“Uh-huh,” Quentin breathes. The back of his neck is hot, maybe from the sun, maybe from Eliot breathing on it from like an inch away, maybe from the arousal spreading lazily but inexorably through his system. The couple have shifted positions, the woman straddling her partner, up on her knees so she’s barely touching their hard cock — leaning forward, hair falling all around her face, to bite at their nipples—

Long fingers close around Quentin’s wrist, gently pulling on it, and he jolts, all of his arousal suddenly coalescing into that two-inch band of skin. “That also means we can’t touch _ourselves_ below the waist,” Eliot murmurs. “Not unless we want to get kicked out.”

Quentin hadn’t even realized he was reaching for his waistband. “Right,” he says shakily. “Yeah.”

“I think the Yellow zone is the most difficult zone to relax in,” Eliot says. His fingers are still on Quentin’s wrist, his thumb slowly sweeping over Quentin’s pulse point. Quentin can _feel_ the heat of his body right next to him, a different heat than the sun above but no less intense. “It requires quite a bit of self control. You see something that turns you on, you can either let yourself enjoy the aesthetics without doing anything about it, or you can head to the Green zone or somewhere private, but you can’t stay and watch and get off here.”

Quentin should— let himself enjoy the aesthetics. Quentin should pull his wrist out of Eliot’s grasp. Quentin should _not_ roll over and kiss Eliot full on the mouth, press up against him, beg to go back to the villa and use some of that complimentary bedside table lube for _literally anything Eliot can think of_.

Eliot is still talking, as the couple continues to make out, hands all over each other’s bodies from the waist up. “Of course, the self control part of it, the denial, that’s some people’s thing. I can get into that sometimes, I’m not about _instant_ gratification, but I do like — the prospect of gratification, at some point in the future.”

Quentin frowns and blinks at the note of bitterness in Eliot’s voice. “So you don’t spend much time in the Yellow areas, then?”

“Not generally, no,” Eliot says. “There are great drinks, and there’s a lagoon that’s amazing for skinny-dipping, but normally if I’m looking to just relax I’ll be either in Green or Red.”

“Huh.” Quentin flexes the wrist Eliot is holding, and Eliot lets go, but Quentin grabs his hand, laces their fingers together firmly. “Well, thank you,” he says, affection simmering in his chest, “for staying here, then. With me.”

He could swear he hears Eliot sigh, behind him, although he’s a bit distracted by the couple in the next chair standing up, straightening what little clothing they’re wearing, heading for the path. “Anything, baby,” Eliot says finally. “Anything for you.”

Quentin blows out a slow, deliberate breath, glad he’s still facing away, that Eliot can’t see his expression. There’s nobody near them, nobody who could have overheard their conversation — he doesn’t need to _say_ shit like that, not when it’s just them.

Then his eyes refocus a little, the haze of arousal and substances ebbing for a moment, and he sees the woman from the far side of the couple walking towards them. She sits on the edge of the now-empty chair, crossing her ankles in front of her.

“Looked like you were enjoying the show,” she says. Her smile is dazzling, her eyes deep brown. “Are either of you interested in making out a little? Keep the party going?”

Eliot shifts in his seat, leans forward to rest his chin on Quentin’s shoulder. “What do you think, baby?” he asks. “I’m going to go grab another drink, you wanna have some fun for a while?”

Quentin shivers, even though he’s objectively like, very warm. Kinda sweaty, almost. “Uh.” He takes a deep breath, remembering to be _in character_. “You don’t mind? Babe?”

“Not in the slightest, you know that,” Eliot says, gently amused. He kisses Quentin on the cheek, quick and light, and levers himself up. “Use another chair, though. I want to nap in this one once I’m nice and liquored up.”

So Quentin gets up too, and steps over to the other chair, and where the woman has moved over to make room. “I’m Quentin,” he says. “Or— is that— am I supposed to introduce myself?” He’s blushing, he’s definitely blushing, like a lot. Maybe she’ll think it’s a sunburn. “Sorry, I’ve never— I’m uh. New here.”

She grins. “I’m Amina. And introducing yourself is fine, you don’t have to apologize.”

“Okay. Sorry.” Quentin grimaces. “I mean— not sorry? Uh.” He’s on his side, she’s right there in front of him, he’s— not sure where to put his hands? On his hip feels weird, on her feels too forward. Even though she like, literally just walked up to him and asked to make out, so she’s probably expecting—

“You’re a nervous little thing, aren’t you?” she asks, and Quentin can feel himself flush even further. “Do you like the other person taking charge?”

“Um.” Quentin hasn’t ever really had occasion to answer that question before, but from the pulse in his core, it seems like maybe _some_ parts of him would _really_ like the other person taking charge. “Yeah? If you don’t mind?”

Her hand slides up over his shoulder, curls around the back of his neck, long nails grazing his scalp. “Not at all,” she says, and leans in.

She’s an _excellent_ kisser, letting Quentin take a moment to get oriented, readjust his head, and then she’s licking into his mouth, teeth sharp in his lower lip. She grabs his hand and moves it firmly to her waist — soft curves and smooth skin — then holds him by the neck again, and Quentin just kind of… melts, sort of, tension and anxiety leaking out of him like she’s found some kind of release valve at the base of his skull.

They kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Quentin pets over her waist and the small of her back, careful not to move his hands any lower. Eventually Amina breaks the kiss, tugs on the string tie of her swimsuit and pulls it out of the way, pulls his hands around to her tits. They spend a small eternity there, Quentin cupping the soft flesh, squeezing gently, running his fingertips across her nipples while she keeps kissing him, making gentle pleased noises into his mouth when he gets something right. It’s good. It’s _so_ good, and he’s definitely most of the way hard, but it’s— kind of nice, knowing that she’s not expecting anything more from him? There’s no concern about when is the right time to switch things up, is she getting impatient, because she’s in charge, and anyway they _can’t_ have sex, not unless they go somewhere else.

Eventually Amina seems to be winding things down, her kisses slower, her tongue grazing Quentin’s swollen lips instead of delving in deep. She runs a hand through his hair, and Quentin sighs happily.

She pulls back. “You want to take this elsewhere?” she asks softly. “No right or wrong answer. I’m game for whatever.”

Quentin feels pleasantly floaty, his breathing a little fast, his dick thick in his shorts but not so hard he has to go get off immediately. He _likes_ her. He’s made out with random people at parties, sometimes, and it’s always been maybe a little fun with a heaping side of weird. This is— not that. This is better.

He glances back over his shoulder, though, and sees the chair he left a while ago sitting empty.

“Not right now,” he says. “I should go see where Eliot went. Thanks, though.” He smiles. “Like. A lot.”

She laughs and leans in to kiss him once more, a friendly goodbye. “If we run into each other again, the offer stands. This was lovely.”

Quentin rolls at least slightly gracefully to the edge of the chair and gets up, wandering in the direction of the bar they were at earlier.

Eliot isn't there, but Quentin spots Margo, perched on a tall stool at the counter. “Hey,” he says, sliding into the seat next to her.

“What’s up, lover boy?” she says, downing the multicolored shot in front of her. “Bartender? Another one of these, and one for my friend, please and thank you.”

“Not a lot,” Quentin says. “Do you know where El went?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.” She fixes him with a look, one eyebrow raised, handing him a shot. “You look like you’ve been having a good time.”

Quentin touches his mouth self-consciously. His lips are still tingling a little, Amina was _bitey_. In like, a good way. “Yeah. Uh. Heh.”

“Good for you.”

The shot tastes like— the sky after a rainstorm? “What _is_ this?” Quentin asks. It’s definitely alcohol, it’s nice and warm in his stomach, but it doesn’t have a _flavor_ so much as a _sensation_.

“Cool, right? I think the base is just shitty flavored vodka, but the spellwork is fucking amazing.” Margo downs her second, then leans close to whisper in Quentin’s ear. “See if you can watch the bartender make the next one, I wanna steal the tuts for El.”

With both of them tipsy and stoned, and the bartender fully aware of what they’re trying to do, they do not, in fact, manage to steal the tuts, but they do take a few more shots and giggle a bunch and Margo smacks Quentin playfully on the ass when he leans way far over the bar in an attempt to see better. Quentin freezes in place, wondering if she’s about to get them kicked out of the Yellow zone, but the sex police don’t come rappelling down from the rafters immediately so he thinks they’re probably fine.

After their fourth unsuccessful attempt at learning the spell through clumsy drunken subterfuge, Margo leans over to a man who’s just stepped up to the bar on Quentin’s other side and tugs on the sleeve of his shirt. “You should order a Wachowski’s Rainbow,” she purrs. “I bet you’ll love it.”

The man smiles at her and leans on the bar, glancing from her to Quentin. “Oh yeah?” he asks. “What are we betting?”

Margo looks him up and down. “One kiss.”

“From each of you?”

Margo straightens up, flips her hair. “I can only speak for myself,” she says loftily. “Q?”

“Sure,” Quentin says.

The guy shrugs happily and gets the bartender’s attention, orders a few different drinks for him and his group plus Margo’s suggestion. Quentin watches him take the shot, tipping his head back, long braids spilling over his shoulders. “You were right,” he says, shaking his head. “I like that.”

Margo smirks. “Looks like we win.”

“Looks like it,” the man says easily. He leans in towards Quentin. “Would you like to claim your prize?”

Quentin looks at his broad smile, his strong shoulders. “Sure,” he says again.

It’s a good kiss, though perhaps not as good as Amina’s. But Quentin’s also a little more drunk than he was before, so, maybe it’s him. Either way, he hums happily as the man pulls away.

Margo laughs and beckons the man closer. When they’ve kissed — thoroughly — the man heads off with his tray of drinks, and Quentin watches him go. He is _also_ wearing very nicely fitted shorts. Eliot doesn’t have a monopoly on having a good ass. Quentin should maybe remember that.

“You seem to be doing quite well for yourself, Bambi,” Eliot says, and Quentin turns, startled, more than a little worried that he summoned him with the power of horny thought.

“Just a friendly little wager on whether or not he’d like what we’re drinking,” Margo says.

“Oh? Who won?”

Margo grins, sharp and feral. “We _all_ did.”

“The best kind of wager,” Eliot says. Then his eyes flash from Margo to Quentin. “ _All_ as in…”

“Yes, baby, your boyfriend kissed the hot guy too.” Margo pats Eliot gently on the hand, giving him an intense look that Quentin can’t quite parse.

“And that was okay, Q?” Eliot asks. His brow is furrowed.

“Yeah,” Quentin says, feeling himself flush.

“Okay,” Eliot says, sighing a little. “Sorry, that’s another thing I should have mentioned — people here will generally assume everyone is at least a little bit bi, and act accordingly.”

Quentin turns that over in his head. “Huh,” he says. “That’s cool.” He giggles a little. “Might be nice to actually be read right for once in my fucking life.”

Margo throws her head back and laughs. “That’s my fucking _boy_ ,” she crows. “You beautiful idiot. I love you.” She slings her arm around Quentin’s shoulders, kisses him firmly on the cheek.

“Uh, thanks?” Quentin says. He looks to Eliot, trying to figure out what the fuck is happening, but Eliot’s looking off into the distance, his expression weirdly glassy. Quentin turns back to Margo. “Should we get El a rainbow?”

“We should get him two,” Margo says, “in honor of your sexuality. I know, I know,” she says, putting her finger to his lips when he starts to protest, “that’s not how that works, both like and unlike, blah blah blah. Trust me. _I know_. But it’s for the _joke_ , Coldwater.”

Eliot takes the two shots (and agrees with Margo that they need to figure out the spell that makes them — “Sometime when you aren’t sloppy drunk, Bambi, we have no chance at it today”) and steers them off to one of the dining pavilions to get something other than booze in their stomachs.

After some food, another joint or two, and a nice long nap in the shade on the beach, Quentin is feeling pretty fucking good as the sky turns pink and evening draws near. He sits up and stretches, marveling at how the enchanted sand immediately falls off his skin.

“What would you like to do tonight, darling?” Eliot asks, tipping his sunglasses down so he can look at Quentin over the top of them. “You all adventured out for the day?”

Quentin considers. “No,” he says after a moment. “I could be— up for something. Like, later.”

“I’m sure you could,” Margo says lasciviously.

“No, I mean— well, yeah, but. Whatever you guys want to do, and then— maybe. We’ll see.” Quentin can feel himself turning red. He’s thinking about Amina, about finding her again — or the nameless guy from the bar — or, like. Anyone? It’s the weirdest feeling, but he thinks he could maybe have like— almost anyone here. Is this what it feels like to be Eliot and Margo?

“I’m guessing you don’t want to dance,” Eliot says.

“ _Want to_ is irrelevant. I can’t.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” Eliot waves a hand. “But we’ll skip it for tonight. There’s usually a dynamic art show down on the artists’ beach, and I think one of the Green pavilions is screening some tastefully artistic porn once it gets dark enough to project.”

“No thanks,” Margo says. “Lemme know when they’re screening some filthy fucked-up porn.”

“Wait,” Eliot says, putting a hand on Margo’s shoulder like she was about to leap to her feet and run off somewhere. “Q. You like cards, right?”

“Uh. Yeah?”

Eliot smiles, and Quentin’s spine tingles. “I know what we’re doing tonight.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Push?” Quentin asks. 
> 
> “Magicians’ card game,” says someone else at the table, a guy with a neatly trimmed beard and dazzling blue eyes. “How are you with probability magic?”
> 
> “He’s great,” Eliot says before Quentin can answer. “He’ll do great. Come on, babe, you want to learn, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice that the chapter count on this fic has increased! It may increase again! These boys are just having too much fun and will not stop!!
> 
> Extreme amounts of credit to Sylph for inventing the rules to a card game for me _without even being asked_ because I slightly mentioned I was stuck while writing this scene. She is the most spectacular beta/cheer reader/brainstorming genius.

“It’s pretty clever, actually,” Eliot says. His hand rests lightly on the small of Quentin’s back as he ushers him into a tent in the Yellow zone lit in soft white light, jazzy music spilling out of the open sides. “Nobody would be so gauche as to carry cash at Encanto. It’s all-inclusive, there’s no point. Some people do have jewelry or watches—” he taps Quentin’s back pocket, right over the little circular bulge of Eliot’s pocket watch, and Quentin does _not_ lose his shit at Eliot patting him on the ass, which honestly he should earn some kind of medal for— “but it’s not guaranteed. So we bet with things that are easier to come by,” he says, as they arrive at a table stacked high with casino chips.

Quentin picks up a white chip. Instead of a number, the center of it is embossed with the word _strip_. The stack of red chips each say _kiss_ , and the blue chips— the blue chips say _orgasm_.

“Huh,” Quentin says, putting his white chip carefully back on the stack. 

“You choose what chips you’d like to play with,” Eliot says. “You don’t have to bet, and you can decline to accept someone’s forfeit if you win. It may make people less inclined to play with you if you back out of all your bets, of course, since that’s not as much fun.” His hand is warm on Quentin’s back, through the thin, nearly sheer fabric of the v-neck that had been in his _Day two - nighttime_ packing cube.

Quentin chews on the side of his tongue, considering. “Does _strip_ mean like, everything?” he asks.

“One item,” Eliot says. “Otherwise those chips would be fairly useless.”

“And what are _gift_ , and _favor_?”

“More or less what they sound like — give the person a physical gift within 24 hours, and do them any favor they ask without questioning it.”

Quentin ends up taking four _strip_ chips (shirt, shorts, one shoe, two shoe, this way he can keep his underwear on), a big handful of _kiss_ chips, a couple _gift_ s, a couple _favor_ s. He considers just a single _orgasm_ chip, but decides he can always come back later. Eliot walks him through the simple spell to mark the chips as his for the evening so it’ll be clear who’s bet what.

They wander over to a low table surrounded by cushions, pillows, squashy little ottomans. There are four other people already there, and they all smile as Eliot guides Quentin to a seat with a hand on the small of his back.

“I’m Britt,” says a woman in a sequined dress as she shuffles an immaculate deck of cards. “The game is group Push, all chips valid, aces high, nine tricks. That work for you two?”

“Fine by me,” Eliot says, setting his chips (mostly _strip, kiss_ and _orgasm_ , with a few _favor_ thrown in for good measure) in neat stacks on the table in front of him and then sprawling across several pillows.

“Push?” Quentin asks. 

“Magicians’ card game,” says someone else at the table, a guy with a neatly trimmed beard and dazzling blue eyes. “How are you with probability magic?”

“He’s great,” Eliot says before Quentin can answer. “He’ll do great. Come on, babe, you want to learn, right?”

Britt explains the rules, which are simple enough. It’s basically War, but with the added element of spells that manipulate the laws of probability to let people draw cards that they shouldn’t really be able to. Each trick has a betting round, then a playing round, then bets get resolved before moving to the next trick.

Quentin holds his deck of nine cards face down, tracing his fingers along their smooth backs and watching intently as beard guy — Carlos — starts off the betting round with a white _strip_ chip. “Bet I win the trick,” he says.

Britt’s up next, and bets the same. Eliot, after her, toys with a red kiss chip for a moment, then tosses in a white chip. “What the hell,” he says, grinning. “Let’s keep this train going.”

Given that it’s his very first time playing, betting that he’ll win the trick is probably ambitious, but Quentin really doesn’t have any self control to spare on resisting peer pressure right now. He pushes in a white chip. “Same.”

The last two players, Rickie and Mikael, do the same. Quentin looks around the table, hiding his nervousness. However this goes, five people are about to be removing clothing. 

“Play in ten,” Britt says, and Quentin feels a zip of magic in the air. He just waits, though, instead of trying to cast anything. He is, actually, pretty great with probability magic, but the more of it gets cast, the weirder everything is going to get in here — better not to add to the chaos before he really knows what he’s doing. Besides, games like these are usually far more about understanding the other players than they are about any actual skill with cards. In a game of nine tricks with mostly strangers, it’ll be way more useful to sit this first one out and see what everyone’s strategy will be. It’s just his shirt, after all. 

“Three, two, one,” Britt counts down, and all six of them flip their top cards. Quentin’s got a seven; Britt has a four; Eliot, Rickie, and Carlos all played queens — but Mikael has a king. He smiles at all of them, tossing his swoop of blonde hair. “Now we have a game,” he says in a lightly accented voice. “Let’s see some skin.”

Miraculously, Quentin doesn’t get tangled in his shirt as he pulls it over his head. The rest of the group also seems to have gone for tops, mostly, except Britt, who reaches under her skirt and comes up with a sleek satin thong in her hand. She sees Quentin’s eyes widen and laughs. “My dress counts as one piece,” she points out. “Easier to start elsewhere.”

A familiar sense of calm is washing through Quentin. He’s not, like, a _card sharp_ , exactly, but— he’s not bad. He’d kept himself pretty comfortably in weed and takeout all through undergrad by playing poker with James’s rugby friends once a week or so. Yeah, it was possible he’d been accidentally doing magic then, but he doesn’t think that’s what gave him the advantage. He’d just learned how to read people, how to count cards, how to judge the odds and hide his tells and lose just often enough, keep them betting so he’d have enough for all his fancy coffees for the next week. Now he’s settling back into that feeling — and he _knows_ how to make the odds work in his favor.

He doesn’t cast any spells for the second trick either, sacrificing his shorts for a chance to study Mikael’s careful spellwork, try to get a read on his goals. Then, satisfied he understands the rhythm of the game, he handily wins the third by focusing a tiny spell on Carlos and Rickie, who seem the most gung-ho to win. Britt sheds her dress, at that point, which _does_ shake Quentin’s concentration a little bit, and her leaning across the table to kiss Rickie shakes it even more — but it’s not like he’s not used to playing cards while slightly horny. James’s rugby friends were _hot_.

“You’ve been holding out on me, Q,” Eliot purrs. Quentin turns to look at him, which he’s been determinedly not doing while he learns the game, because — _slightly_ horny is one thing. _Very_ horny — when he’s currently sitting in front of strangers in his boxers — is another. But if Eliot’s talking directly to him—

—he’ll have to look over, and see him splayed across several plush cushions, in full on draw-me-like-one-of-your-french-girls glory. Dark chest hair, lean muscles of his torso, legs so long they should be fucking illegal. He still has his underwear on, tight briefs made of some kind of silvery, shimmery fabric — tight enough that honestly, they might as well not be there, Quentin can _very clearly_ see the shape of Eliot’s dick. He suddenly remembers his little horniness spiral while shaving, and notes with some minor hysteria that okay, well, that answers that question, the rumor mill was not wrong — and fuck, he’s not even _hard_ —

“Oh yeah?” he asks, his not-a-card-sharp skills sweeping in to the rescue, letting him raise an eyebrow and smirk a little instead of just collapsing in a puddle of his own drool. 

Eliot sucks in a quick breath and doesn’t say anything back.

As they begin trick four of nine, the betting starts getting complicated. Most of the group is already either naked or has already used all their _strip_ chips. Britt bets a kiss specifically against Carlos, and Mikael one against Rickie. Eliot bets a kiss for the winner of the hand. Quentin considers his bet carefully, since now he’s not sure he wants to win this trick — then Eliot would have to kiss him, and Quentin shouldn’t make him do that just to keep their cover story going — and bets one more piece of clothing. 

He focuses his probability spell on his own deck, and frowns a little when he turns up a jack despite his efforts to pull a lower card. He knows his spell worked, he felt the shiver of possibility that means it took properly. Was someone else casting to make him win? It doesn’t really matter, though, since Carlos has the second queen of spades that’s come up so far. Counting cards definitely doesn’t work in this game. Quentin pulls off one of his shoes and sets it behind him with the rest of his clothes.

“Nuh-uh,” Rickie says, pointing a playful finger at Quentin, “both shoes are one item. Nice try.”

Quentin blinks. “But—”

“Them’s the rules,” Britt says, grinning broadly.

Quentin pulls off the other shoe and tosses it back to the pile of his clothes. It lands in a crevice between two pillows, perfectly balanced on its toe, a sure sign of the buildup of probability magic in the area.

Okay, so this was as naked as he wanted to get, when he picked up his chips. He doesn’t have to _use_ the last white chip he has, obviously. But—

—he’s having fun. He’s feeling more in his element than he has in a while, and these people he’s playing with seem nice, and _they’re_ all getting naked. His heart feels warm and floaty with burgeoning confidence, now that he’s doing something he actually knows how to do, so—

—so he _could_ use it. Maybe. It’s not totally out of the question.

He’s distracted by Eliot shifting next to him, leaning across the table for the kiss he owes Carlos. His ass is, fuck, it’s _really_ nice, surprisingly round for how skinny he is. Quentin’s eyes trace all the way up his body, cataloging every taut muscle, his broad shoulders and spill of dark curls— which Carlos’s fingers are currently tangled in as Eliot tongues at his lips, making a small pleased sound. 

Quentin swallows down a sound of his own, which was maybe going to be a moan, or maybe a growl, or something in between. He bites carefully at the inside of his cheek. He really has to get the fuck over himself, for a multitude of reasons, not the least of which being that even the _character_ he’s playing has no fucking right to be jealous that Eliot’s kissing someone else. Fake Quentin and Fake Eliot have an open fucking relationship and are _at a sex festival together_ — and Real Quentin and Real Eliot have no kind of relationship, so Real Quentin has even less standing in this.

Eliot leads off the betting next, and he toys with his chips for a moment before he puts in his last white chip, betting he’ll win the whole trick.

As Quentin watches the chip turn a series of improbable pirouettes towards the center of the table, something coalesces in his chest. It’s a dangerous amalgamation of bravado, curiosity, horniness — maybe just a bit of possessiveness — and he probably shouldn’t give into it. But— 

He grabs a random chip off his stack and tosses it in, because fuck it— he’s determined to win this trick. He has to, because Eliot needs to lose.

He counteracts the spells Britt and Mikael cast with one of his own, then adds another, slightly stronger spell to boost his own chances. The cards hit the table, and Quentin’s got the king of diamonds — not the first time that card’s come up tonight, but it doesn’t matter. He won. He looks over at Eliot, his heart pounding.

Eliot has a two — did he want to get naked so bad he threw his own hand? All that spellwork was a total waste, then, but oh well, it’s good practice. Eliot sits up on his knees, hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs, and— Quentin shouldn’t stare, this is supposed to be like, a sight he sees every day, but. It’s mesmerizing, the slow reveal of more pale skin and very neatly trimmed dark hair, and—

Holy _fuck_.

Quentin barely even registers Britt and Rickie agreeing to meet up after the game to make good on the orgasm Britt just won. He’s fucking transfixed. Grower, shower, it doesn’t fucking matter, Eliot’s dick is _big_ by any standard. Not to mention _gorgeous_ , as pretty as the rest of him, rosy pink with a fat head. He’s even not really hard and Quentin still wants to get his hands on it, his mouth on it, literally any part of his body on it, and god now Quentin is getting hard and it’s gonna be fucking obvious to everyone through these clingy micromodal boxers Margo bought him.

He tears his eyes away from Eliot’s cock, but unfortunately the next place he looks is Eliot’s face. Eliot’s looking right back at him, his eyes dark. He’s smiling just a little, _knowingly_ , like he’s completely got Quentin’s number. _Fuck_.

But maybe he doesn’t, maybe he just, he just knows his dick is nice? Of course he knows his dick is nice. Of course he’d expect Quentin, expect _anyone_ , to look at it like they’ve never wanted anything more in their life than to fall face-first onto it. That’s just, that’s normal, for Eliot, and he’s probably just kind of amused, maybe? That his little first-year friend is just as susceptible as the rest of the world? Not a laughing-at-Quentin kind of amused, just, you know, ha ha, here’s some more validation for my already massive ego. It’s fine. It’s fine. None of this was a giveaway, it’s fine, Quentin’s fine.

He’s also definitely kinda hard.

But so is Carlos, it looks like, as Quentin glances across the table. And damn, his dick is nice _too_. He’s looking from Quentin to Eliot and back, and raises his eyebrows at Quentin conspiratorially, like, _you lucky boy, you._ And Quentin has to grin, maybe a little too big, and pretend that this isn’t also the first fucking time he’s seeing Eliot’s dick, that he _is_ a lucky boy, instead of a desperately pining and unlucky boy being absolutely tortured by his well hung, uninterested friend.

It’s Quentin’s turn to lead the bet, and he’s got a few options — but fuck it, he’s going for the stupidest one. What else does he ever do? He puts his last white chip on the table and sneaks a glance at Eliot as he says, “Bet I win the trick.”

Eliot’s eyes flash to him, slide down his body, over the obvious bulge in his boxers.

He’s so focused on turning that reaction over in his mind, trying to figure out what it _means_ , that he blinks kind of stupidly when Carlos flips a red _kiss_ chip into the middle and says, “Bet I get a higher card than Quentin.”

He recovers after a second, smiling at Carlos and really looking at him, taking his time, as Mikael and Britt bet kisses and Eliot bets a favor. Carlos is stocky, probably not a lot taller than Quentin, his tan skin covered in thick black hair. And his dick is nice, and he’s apparently interested — and Quentin’s having a relapse of that feeling from earlier, on the beach, that maybe he can be— attractive? To people here? A strange thought, but it makes warmth spread across his skin as he watches Carlos’s thick fingers rub over his dwindling deck of cards. 

When the cards flip, Britt is the winner, and Quentin has an eight. Carlos has a four.

“Oh no,” he says, grinning at Quentin. “Looks like I lost.”

He makes his way around the table as Britt rakes in her chips, including Eliot’s favor and another orgasm from Rickie, who is basically licking her lips at this point. Quentin shifts to his knees, considers standing and gets, like, halfway up on one leg before deciding it’s weird, but then Carlos is there kneeling in front of him, which Quentin guesses settles that problem. He puts his square hands on Quentin’s shoulders, massaging his arms.

“You can take care of your bet first, if you want,” he says. “I certainly wouldn’t mind.”

Quentin remembers the white _strip_ chip he’d bet, looks down Carlos’s body — thinks about what it would look like for his half-hard cock to be out there too, next to his — and slides his boxers off, his heart pounding in his ears. He manages to toss them aside without faceplanting into Carlos’s chest, and straightens back up, looking him in his startlingly blue eyes. Then Carlos is holding his shoulders again, leaning in, bringing their lips together.

It isn’t a long kiss, but it’s _thorough_. Carlos leans in with his whole body — Quentin feels Carlos’s dick brush against his thigh — licks into Quentin’s mouth, sucks on his tongue. It’s a little overwhelming, but maybe in a good way? Quentin is still trying to decide how much he liked it as he watches Carlos head back to his seat.

Quentin tries to lean back casually, although sitting buck naked and aroused with a group of strangers and also the hottest guy he knows is not exactly a situation that sets him at ease. He hasn’t looked at Eliot, not since he took his boxers off. If he doesn’t look, he can imagine that maybe, just maybe, Eliot likes what he sees. It’s pathetic, he knows it, but it’s nice to imagine. And there are all sorts of improbable things happening tonight, thanks to the probability magic they’re all casting. Why couldn’t that be one of them?

He’s a little distracted by that imagining through the next trick, and ends up owing Britt a favor. Same story as they place bets for trick number eight, the second to last in the game — Quentin bets a kiss against Carlos, since he’s done that already and it didn’t kill him. Maybe with a second round he’ll decide whether he actually likes Carlos’s intense style. As he muses on that thought, the air tingles with magic, the cards flip, and Quentin’s looking at an ace of hearts that’s just come off his deck. He shrugs apologetically at Carlos, who shrugs back.

Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, long fingers sliding over his skin. “You won, baby,” Eliot says, a strange note in his voice. “Time to collect.”

Quentin’s heart rate skyrockets. He looks down at the table and realizes Eliot bet a kiss.

He turns, and Eliot’s face is _right there_ , his big, beautiful face, hazel eyes bright and darting down to look at Quentin’s mouth. He’s leaning towards Quentin, naked body stretched across the pillows, looking like— looking like he _wants_ this.

All of Quentin’s bravado deserts him. He can’t let Eliot— he can’t make him do this, not if he’s not interested— “We do this all the time, babe,” he says, cringing inwardly at the awkward nickname. “You sure you’re not tired of it? I can, uh, I can give you a night off.”

Eliot’s expression flickers, too fast for Quentin to understand, and resolves into a small smile. “I’ll never get tired of it,” he says, and closes the gap between them.

As weird as it is, Quentin keeps his eyes open for a second, because— this is real? This is happening? _Eliot_ is kissing him, and sure, it’s because of the game, but his lips are real. His hand is real, curling hot over Quentin’s shoulder to pull him in. Quentin opens his mouth and Eliot’s tongue is real, teasing over Quentin’s lips, dipping inside to taste him. And the pleased noise he makes— it sounds _very_ real. Quentin moans in the back of his throat, unable to help himself, a pulse of arousal hitting him and running straight to his cock.

And then it’s over, Eliot’s pulling away. Quentin’s situational awareness returns to him: the low, jazzy music, the soft glow of the lights, the other people watching them. Quentin’s breathing hard when he sits back — from _one fucking kiss, Jesus_ he has got to get his shit together — and startles when Rickie wolf whistles.

“Ah, young love,” says Britt. “All right, last trick. Go big and possibly go home with someone.”

Quentin stares at his remaining chips, heart still pounding in his chest, feeling like he’s flushed all the way down to his toes. He has to calm down. That was enough acting for one night, they’ve made their point that they’re a couple, Eliot’s not going to kiss him _again_. When it’s his turn, he bets a gift, figuring hey, he hasn’t tried that one yet.

Carlos bets an orgasm against Eliot. Eliot winks at him.

This game needs to be over, like, _now_. Now. Quentin’s head is swimming, he’s too unfocused to even cast anything. His heart feels like it’s trying to pound its way out of his chest, which must be a side effect of the probability magic — it’s pretty improbable for a young, relatively healthy guy to have a spontaneous heart attack, right? He tries to breathe, lets his card-playing calm wash over him, his face going neutral, his vision unfocusing.

Rickie wins the trick handily, another ace of diamonds. Eliot’s got a ten, and Carlos has a three. That could just be the way things shook out, no magic needed — or one of them could have cast something to make it happen. Or both of them could have. There’s no way to know. Quentin doesn’t have a _right_ to know, it shouldn’t _matter_ to him. Jesus.

He turns deliberately away from Eliot to find out where Rickie’s staying so he can have her gift delivered within the next day. When he turns back, Carlos is there, and he and Eliot are deep in the midst of a kiss. Quentin fights down the fiery pulse of jealousy in his stomach, tries to concentrate on the lower, more diffuse pulse of arousal at seeing Eliot make out with a hot guy. That’s what they’re _here_ for. Quentin is used to — what did Eliot say earlier? — _appreciating the aesthetics_ of his friend without being able to do anything about it. He just has to keep doing that. It’s the same as it is at school, just, more visible cocks.

Really really nice cocks. _Fuck_.

He’s managed to put a smile on his face by the time Carlos breaks away and looks over Eliot’s shoulder at Quentin.

“I know you’re the one I owe,” he says to Eliot, eyes tracing over Quentin’s body — weird, but good, to have someone look at him with that kind of raw desire. Frankly mind-blowing, to have someone do it when they’re literally dick to dick with _Eliot_ — “but I was kind of hoping I could get two for the price of one, if you’re both interested.”

Quentin’s stomach flips, his ears ring. _Both_ — Carlos wants to have sex with _both_ of them, him and Eliot, together. At once. Having sex. And, and Eliot, would be, he’d be there and Quentin could maybe, holy _shit_ , he doesn’t even _know_ , he can’t even _think_ , most of the blood in his body is heading south at record speed.

Eliot chuckles nervously. “I’d love that, but Q is _exhausted_ from everything today,” he says. “I could barely get him out here for one game, I had to promise I’d let him go to bed right after.”

Right.

Right. Because they’re not, Eliot doesn’t— _actually_ want that, obviously. _Obviously_. Quentin fucking knew that. He’s not even drunk, he has no excuse for not remembering why he’s actually here. This whole thing, holding hands, Eliot calling him _baby_ , the kiss, it’s nothing. It’s not real. Quentin has to remember that.

“Yeah, I’m beat,” he says, trying to figure out how to make himself yawn. He kind of mimes it, covering his face with his hand to hide that it, like so much else in this situation, is a performance. “You guys have fun, though.” He squishes his mouth into something vaguely resembling a smile. “I’m sure I’ll hear all about it tomorrow morning.”

Carlos shrugs and winks. “If I hold up my end of the bet well enough, you certainly will.”

“I’ll give you all the dirty details, baby,” Eliot tells him. 

Quentin nods, ducking his head to gather his clothes but also to make sure Eliot doesn’t see his frown. He doesn’t _have_ to call him a pet name every single time. He could just, not. But he doesn’t know how Quentin feels, so he has no reason to suspect how much it stings. Quentin pulls on his boxers, deciding to just walk back to the villa in those, not bother with the rest of this stupid outfit. His erection has wilted like a fucking cut flower, so they’re really not any more risque than his swimsuit. “Great,” he says.

He looks up and Eliot is looking at him with a strange expression— kind of sad, almost? Quentin’s stomach churns. The last thing he needs right now is Eliot’s fucking _pity_ — he’s fine, he’s going to be fine, he’s going to get through this week and it’s fine. But then he realizes Eliot is stepping towards him — leaning down — bringing one huge hand up to cup Quentin’s cheek — 

And kissing him, _again_ , even though he doesn’t have to — even though he didn’t lose a bet this time — he doesn’t have to, but he is, and Quentin’s whole heart is caught up in it, the feel and the taste of Eliot against his lips, holding there for a long, lingering, sweet moment.

“Get a good night’s sleep, Q,” he says, his voice low. “Tomorrow’s another big day.”

Quentin nods, unable to speak, and waves goodbye to Carlos as he and Eliot walk off together hand in hand. Then he walks back to the villa, where he jerks off to the memory of Eliot’s tongue brushing across his mouth, still feeling tortured and desperately pining but maybe— maybe a little bit lucky after all?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You having a good day so far?” Quentin asks, a little desperately. Isn’t _he_ supposed to be the awkward one?
> 
> “Pretty good,” Eliot says distantly. “I thought you’d either be in a Red area or somewhere with Margo.”
> 
> Quentin shrugs. “Figured I could handle Yellow today without a chaperone.”

“So,” Margo says, “how are you enjoying the fuck festival so far?”

Quentin snorts, then bites back a giggle as the — spa lady? What the fuck do you call that job? — spreads a double handful of enchanted mud up his sides, her firm hands still managing to tickle. “It’s, uh. It’s good. Haven’t actually fucked anyone, so dunno if I’m doing it right.”

“You’re just getting warmed up,” Margo says magnanimously. “Nobody expected you to dive cock first into it. You’re doing great.”

“Uh huh,” Quentin says, letting the spa… technician? nudge him over onto his front, averting his eyes as he gets a glimpse of Margo’s golden skin shiny with massage oil on the table next to him. He settles his face in the weird hole in the headrest and stares safely down at the sand.

“You want a wax?” the spa expert asks in her thick Russian accent, resting her broad hand on his swimsuit-covered butt.

“What?”

“You want a Brazilian wax?” she asks again. “Enchanted for less pain, slower regrowth. It is very popular.”

Quentin’s really glad nobody can see the face he’s making. “No, uh, just the, mud thing, please,” he says faintly. “I’m good.”

“Good call,” Margo says, clearly amused, as the spa guru starts slathering mud over Quentin’s back. “El likes ‘em au naturel.”

“He does?” Quentin asks, then realizes he’s fallen directly into Margo’s trap.

“I mean, he wouldn’t say _no_ to some decent manscaping, but it’s not his favorite. Something something _masculine allure_ , whatever. Personally I prefer not getting hairs stuck in my teeth when I eat ass, but to each their own, I guess.”

There is— a _whole_ lot to unpack in that comment, and Quentin has no intention of unpacking a single bit of it. He hums noncommittally instead.

After a moment, Margo says, “Okay, since you’re not taking the bait, I’ll just ask it. What’s up with you and El?”

Quentin tries to lift his head to frown at her. The spa service provider pushes him back down with a firm hand. “You know what’s up, Margo,” he says pointedly. “We’re dating. It’s great.”

“Yep, uh huh, but for real—”

“ _Margo_ —”

“There aren’t fucking microphones hidden in the bushes,” Margo says, and Quentin can _hear_ her rolling her eyes. “But okay, I’ll play by your delicate sensibilities. Your committed relationship with Eliot is going great, awesome, but what about that _other_ guy you have your eye on?”

“What other guy?” Quentin asks nervously.

“You know. Tall, curly hair, winning smile. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, sometimes.” There’s a wicked smile in Margo’s voice. “For the purposes of this conversation, let’s call him _Todd_.”

Despite himself, Quentin laughs. “Yeah, okay, sure. Todd. What makes you think I, uh. Have my eye on _Todd_?”

“Other than absolutely everything? I dunno, maybe the fact that you were sulking in the villa all morning because he wasn’t back from his hookup?”

“I wasn’t sulking, I was getting a slow start,” Quentin says, sulkily.

“You were pouting so pathetically my fucking maternal instincts kicked in, and those puppies are buried fucking _deep_ , Coldwater. If I hadn’t dragged you out for a spa day you’d still be there now, sniffing his dirty laundry and sadly jerkin’ it.”

Quentin’s brain can’t even begin to react to that appropriately, so he chooses to simply pretend he never heard it. His bare skin from his neck down to the soles of his feet is now entirely covered in mud. He feels like a giant chocolate-covered candy bar, but mostly in a good way. The spa master starts placing hot stones in strategic places along his back, the warmth seeping into his muscles. “Thanks for convincing me to do this,” he says, hoping the subject change will stick. “It actually feels really good.”

“You’re welcome.” Margo sighs deeply and happily. “Take the lesson to heart, please, because I don’t fucking give them out often.”

“What lesson?”

“That you’re allowed to feel good. That feeling good is the whole fucking point of being here.” Her voice softens. “That El and I both want that for you.”

Quentin blinks, and blinks again, wondering how she managed to stab him right in the heart of his insecurities. God she’s terrifying.

“And you know what _else_ would feel good?”

“Margo…”

“Sitting that cute little ass down right on _Todd’s_ massive— okay, no, I can’t, I physically cannot finish that sentence like that or I’m gonna hurl. But you know what I mean.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Or don’t,” Margo says lightly. “You can both keep being absolute fucking mouth-breathing idiots about this. No skin off my tits. In fact, this is the last thing I’m going to say about it: try fucking someone in front of him. See what happens.”

“Uh,” Quentin says, because his brain is a double record-scratch noise of _no fucking way_ and _goddamn that would be hot_. “Kay. Thanks.”

They’re quiet for a while, and he’s almost starting to drift off when the spa lady takes off the now-cooled stones and smacks him on the butt, startling him. “Go into the ocean now,” she orders. “Wash off all the mud.”

“Uh, okay,” Quentin says. He flounders his way off his table, remembers at the last second to fish Eliot’s pocket watch out of his pocket and leave it safely on the bed, and staggers towards the water, feeling chips of dried mud break off from weird places on his body and scatter across the sand. The water feels pleasantly cool compared to the sun and the stones, and he walks in until he’s neck deep, letting the waves wash him clean.

Okay, so, Margo’s got him figured out. Or she has her _suspicions_ , at least. That tracks. She’s brilliant and devious, she’s probably picked up on all of Quentin’s little slip-ups and put them together like a pathetic, horny jigsaw puzzle to come to — the correct conclusion, unfortunately.

Would she have told Eliot? Jesus, was that what their silent conversation had been about? Had she been using secret best-friend eyebrow language to communicate _this poor dumbass has been beating his meat about you since the day you two met_ , and Eliot had been saying back _oh excellent, I shall torment him so deliciously at this week-long sexcapade, this will be tons of fun for me_ , and she’d said _me too, his stupid face will be so very funny to look at when he sees your smokin’ hog for the first time and realizes he’s never gonna get to suck it,_ and—

He takes a deep breath and bends his knees, dunking his head in the water to clear away the last of the mud and short-circuit his spiraling. It’s fine. It’s all fine. Margo and Eliot are his _friends_ , and they brought him here for their own ulterior motives but also so he could get laid, probably, because they are _good people_ in addition to being ethereal creatures of pure hotness. He’s already got enough fucking neuroses in his stupid broken brain, he doesn’t need to add the idea that his friends are conspiring to sexually torture him.

When all the mud is gone, his skin does seem softer and smoother. The extra sunburn wards the mud was imbued with certainly can’t hurt, either. He tans pretty well, but it’d be pretty much his luck to forget to do his wards before he leaves the villa one morning and, like, sunburn his bare ass. Or his dick.

Margo’s massage is done, but she wants to hit the Green zone, so they part ways. Quentin stops by the volleyball court — oh, okay, looks like, uh, people _do_ play sports with their junk hanging out — and gets himself a joint at one of the bars. He remembers he owes Rickie a gift, heads for the Artists’ Beach and finds a pretty beaded bracelet that he’s pretty sure would go nicely with the top she was briefly wearing last night, charges it to his room. Somewhere out there, Britt’s got a favor chip with his name on it. He’ll have to find her sometime soon.

There’s a little popsicle stand set up along the path back to the Yellow zone. Quentin gets a piña colada one infused with plenty of rum plus a mild synesthesia spell, then heads to a live music stage he passed earlier and finds an unoccupied spot on the grass. As he works on the popsicle, the notes morph into sparkly wisps of color in front of his eyes, a kaleidoscope of pleasant sensation, pretty things in his eyes and ears and icy sweetness on his tongue.

“That looks delicious,” someone says from right next to him. Quentin looks over and sees a staggeringly hot guy stretched out next to him on the grass, tall and toned with black hair styled in a perfect swoop over his forehead.

“ _You_ look delicious,” Quentin says, before he can think better of it.

The guy laughs. “You stole my next line.” His voice is coming out in deep blues and intense purples, washing over his golden skin. “I think you owe me a taste of that popsicle as payment.”

Quentin bites his lip. “It’s got a spell in it,” he says. His voice is coral and peach with a hint of gold. “I’m seeing sounds.”

“Even better.” 

Quentin takes another lick of the popsicle — swirls his tongue around it, showing off a little. He might not be as hot as this guy, but he can play up the skills he does have. Then he reaches out, holds it to the guy’s lips.

The guy gently holds Quentin’s wrist to steady the popsicle as he licks up the side of it, wraps his lips over the top and dips his head to suck, hollowing his cheeks. Quentin’s little gasp floats across his vision as a light pink cloud.

“Damn, yeah, that’s good,” the guy says.

Quentin scoots closer until he’s right next to the guy, their faces inches apart. “Want another taste?”

They share the popsicle for the next few minutes, as the guy’s eyes roam freely over Quentin’s body with that same _I’m attracted to you_ heat in them that Quentin is slowly, very slowly, getting more used to seeing. Quentin’s cock stiffens up a little more every time the guy’s lips slide off the popsicle with a wet sound that glitters silver in Quentin’s vision.

“What’s your name?” he asks eventually, so he doesn’t have to keep thinking of him as Sexy Blue-Purple Popsicle Man.

“Evan.” The guy passes the popsicle back. “You?”

“Quentin.”

“Extremely nice to meet you, Quentin.”

The popsicle’s almost gone. Quentin goes in to lick at the last little bit, clinging precariously to one side of the stick, but the heat of his tongue melts it too quickly and it drops onto the grass.

“Oh,” Quentin says sadly, his words a dull green. “I wanted to eat that.”

“We could get another one,” Evan says.

Quentin looks at his incredible cheekbones. His heart pounds in his ears, a blood-red pulse. “Or I could kiss you,” he says.

Evan smiles. “You definitely could.”

He tastes like piña colada, and Quentin’s pleased little moan flares magenta on the inside of Quentin’s closed eyelids. Evan slides an arm around his waist to draw them together. He’s big and solid and a surprisingly gentle kisser. Quentin brushes his fingers over the nape of his neck, fuzzy little pinpricks of perfectly-faded hair making him shiver. The band is still playing, soft guitar and the singer’s easy crooning adding color to the experience.

Evan pulls back, leaving Quentin chasing his mouth with a needy orange-red whine. “There’s a Green beach over that hill with some private tents. Want to head over there, see where things might go?”

Quentin’s ready to say _no thanks_ , just out of habit, but then he realizes — he hasn’t thought of Eliot _once_ in the last ten minutes. He hasn’t needed to, with Evan pressed against him, tongue in his mouth and soft hair under his fingers.

“Show me?” he says, tinged with purple and gold.

It’s been, like— six months, since Quentin got laid? At least? Which is really par for the course for him, but he forgets, every time, how fucking _fun_ it is to get someone’s hand on his dick other than his. He can’t stop smiling as they move together, body fizzing with colors and sensations and the heat of Evan’s mouth all over his chest, the slide of his lube-slicked fingers over both their cocks together. He comes gasping, laughing, spirals of purple-blue-pink cascading over him.

Evan does a quick tut, afterwards, and the come pooling on Quentin’s chest vanishes like it was never there. He looks at Evan’s hands, fascinated, trying to remember the sequence so he can try and replicate it later.

“What,” Evan says, grinning, “you’ve never fucked another Magician before?”

“Huh? Oh, no, I— obviously I have,” Quentin lies. “My boyfriend just usually, uh, does all the spells. He knows them better.”

“And you get to lie back like a cute little pillow princess and let him take care of you, huh?” Evan teases.

“No,” Quentin protests, frowning. “That’s—.” He shakes his head, deciding to not pursue that particular mental image in favor of kissing Evan again. “Thank you.”

Evan’s laugh shows up as a beautiful bright purple. “Thank _you_.” His fingers trace along the edge of Quentin’s jaw, and Quentin closes his eyes happily when Evan leans in for a kiss. “I had a great time. Want to grab a drink? I don’t have to meet up with my wife for another hour or so, and there’s a really cute wine bar further down this beach.”

Quentin has to squint against the bright afternoon sun as they walk hand in hand out of the tent, so it takes him a second to notice Eliot. He’s heading for the next tent over, laughing delightedly with a guy about Quentin’s height, and Quentin’s going to just keep walking, give him his privacy. But Eliot must spot him, since he stops dead in his tracks, his conquest nearly running into him in surprise.

“Q?” he says, the single letter a sickly yellow-green.

Quentin’s still full of endorphins, so the incredulity in Eliot’s voice doesn’t sting like it might have at some other time. “Oh, hey, El.” 

Eliot’s looking from Quentin (back in his swim trunks) to Evan (still naked) to the tent they just emerged from, a strange expression on his face. He doesn’t say anything.

“You having a good day so far?” Quentin asks, a little desperately. Isn’t _he_ supposed to be the awkward one?

“Pretty good,” Eliot says distantly. “I thought you’d either be in a Red area or somewhere with Margo.”

Quentin shrugs. “Figured I could handle Yellow today without a chaperone.”

“And Green, apparently,” Eliot says, yellow-brown and bitter.

“Yeah,” Quentin says, starting to frown, his words taking on an orange edge. “Like you said I should.”

“When did I say that?” Eliot asks, clipped.

“I don’t know, when you _brought_ me here?”

“I brought you—” Eliot starts, then stops. “Right. I’m glad you’re having a good day.” He swallows, pulls his face into a charming smile as he gives Evan another once-over. “I’ll see you for dinner, though, right? I can’t wait to tell you about last night.”

Quentin bites down lightly on the inside of his lip to keep himself from telling Eliot how deeply he does not want to hear a single thing about last night, takes a slow breath. “Of course,” he says. “Have fun.”

Eliot looks for a second like he’s going to step forward, then he smiles and blows Quentin a kiss. “Will do,” he says. He takes a step back and bumps directly into the guy he was walking with, who is standing with his arms crossed over his chest and barely concealed amusement on his face. “Oh! Yes. Lucas. Shall we? What was I saying?” He puts a hand on the small of Lucas’s back, nudges him towards the tent.

As Quentin and Evan walk to the bar, Evan says, “His first time bringing you, huh?”

“Yeah,” Quentin says. “I don’t— I think he’s just come alone, before.”

“I get it. My wife was kind of like that our first year here together. No matter your best intentions about not being jealous, it can be a weird adjustment, especially if you’re monogamous the rest of the time.”

Monogamous the rest of the time. Right. “Maybe that’s it.”

“He’ll get over himself by the end of the week,” Evan says encouragingly. “I can almost guarantee it. I don’t think you’d be dating him if he weren’t a reasonable guy.” He grins down at Quentin. “And then when you two go home, he’ll be _extra_ grateful to have you all to himself again.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, trying not to think about how awkward things will be when they actually go home. At this point he has zero hope of ever getting over this crush, and it’s probably going to be impossible to act normal around Eliot now with what Quentin’s seen over the last couple days. He’ll have to start his social life over from scratch, find all new friends, or maybe just go back to his usual sad, solitary existence— he shakes his head abruptly to stop the spiral. “I bet that’s what’ll happen.”

Quentin next crosses paths with Eliot when he arrives back at the villa to put on his _Day three: nighttime_ outfit. He hates to admit it, but there is definitely a different atmosphere here in the evening than there is in the daytime, and it seems like it actually makes sense to change clothes. Plus he’s usually kinda sweaty by dinnertime, so a fresh shirt feels pretty nice.

The door to their shared bedroom is closed, so Quentin listens carefully — no snoring, no sex noises — and then taps on it gently. There’s no response, so he eases the handle down and slips inside.

Eliot’s suitcase appears to have exploded, though obviously a smaller explosion than the one back at Brakebills. Quentin picks his way through the carnage of linen and silk to his own suitcase to find his correct packing cube. He can hear the shower running in the bathroom now that he’s in the room, so that explains where Eliot is. Quentin can just change and hang out until Eliot’s ready, and then they’ll go to dinner and find something fun to do with their evening, and it’ll be fine. Eliot will have another hookup, maybe Quentin will too, and they’ll see each other in the morning. This is what friends do, in the totally unremarkable, run-of-the-mill situation where they’re pretending to date at a week-long orgy. Probably.

Quentin’s curled up on the living room couch with one of the books he’d managed to sneak into his suitcase after Margo finished his packing when Eliot wanders out of the bedroom, pink and scrubbed-looking, towel around his shoulders — and _nothing_ around his waist.

“Q,” he says, sounding surprised for the second time today.

“Hey,” Quentin says, doing what he thinks is an extremely good job of sounding nonchalant. Weird how getting off in the middle of the day takes the edge off his desperate endless hunger for Eliot’s dick. Just the edge, though, because _god_ it’s nice— he averts his eyes. “Are we waiting for Margo before we go to dinner? Because I might get some room service, if it’s gonna be a while, I’m kind of hungry.”

“She’s going to meet us there,” Eliot says, pulling the towel off his shoulders and wrapping it around the lower half of his body. Quentin’s heart rate settles almost back down to normal. Thank fucking god. “I’ll only be a moment.”

It’s more than a moment, but Quentin has his book, so he’s not complaining. When Eliot finally emerges, he’s wearing the exquisitely fitted navy blue shorts that had caused him so much distress while packing, plus a floral shirt unbuttoned nearly down to his navel, so. The results were worth the wait.

Eliot takes his hand as they walk along. “This particular dining option is in the Yellow zone, but it’s right on the border of a big Green area, so it’s easy to find somewhere to go if you find someone you want to fuck.”

Okay, so they’re just going to pretend that super awkward conversation by the tents earlier never happened? That’s— actually, that’s fine. That might be better. “Cool.”

“Since you’re going into Green zones now, I should tell you that there are spells over the whole festival for contraception, STI protection, all those important things. I can teach you a few extra protection charms, if you want them. Margo can probably help with the contraception ones.”

“I managed to get all that before you burned my beginner’s guide on the first day,” Quentin says, “but thanks for the Talk, _dad_.” He grins at Eliot.

Eliot raises a cool eyebrow at him. “I generally prefer _Daddy_.”

Quentin’s brain screeches to a halt, his throat working soundlessly. “No,” he manages after a moment. “No, that’s not happening.”

“A pity,” Eliot says with a dramatic sigh and a smirk.

They arrive at a beach where a dozen small bonfires are burning in stone fire pits, surrounded by low, cushioned benches. They spot Margo and weave through the area, delicious smells of grilled meat and woodsmoke making Quentin’s stomach growl, until they reach her group. She’s sitting with a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, her other arm wrapped around a woman whose gauzy green dress sets off her dark skin perfectly.

“Here they are,” she says. “Boys, Jillian, Jillian, boys. Also Marie, Tien, Daniel, Marcus, Adam.” She points to each of the people sitting around the fire as she names them. “Jillian’s friends. We’ve all had a lovely afternoon.” She grins wickedly.

Quentin eats roughly a hundred little skewers of meat and veggies that Marie keeps pulling out of a cooler next to her seat and grilling to perfection, drinks several of something incredible that tastes like lemon and caramel, listens to the banter and flirting flow around him, chimes in when he feels like it. It’s like the best of the parties at the Cottage, nobody outright ignoring him but nobody making him engage too much in the conversation. The alcohol and food make him warm and a little sleepy, and when Tien pulls out a pipe and some magically-enhanced weed and starts passing it around, everything feels, just — _right_. He doesn’t even feel self-conscious about how he’s leaning into Eliot’s side, Eliot’s hand resting on the back of his head, playing a little with his hair, because this is just how they are right now, right? This is where they’re at. It’s not necessarily everything Quentin wants in life, but if he doesn’t think about it too hard, it’s not far off.

A round of shots later, he’s leaning even more heavily against Eliot, starting to kind of drape over to rest his head on his broad chest. Margo kicks at one of his sprawling legs with her perfectly pedicured toes. “Quit hogging the bench, Coldwater,” she says. “You’re fucking five foot nothing, you cannot possibly need this much space.”

“I’m five eight,” Quentin shoots back. “And Eliot’s tall. We _collectively_ need this much space.”

“You can consolidate,” Marcus points out. “Just sit on his lap. Leave some room for the rest of us.”

And Quentin… nods. “Good idea,” he says, and plants a hand on Eliot’s chest to lever himself up. Eliot looks a little stunned, but quickly readjusts how he’s sitting so Quentin can settle into his lap.

The moment he’s there, Quentin knows he’s made yet another mistake. Eliot is warm and sturdy against his back, his huge hand resting on Quentin’s thigh, keeping him balanced, and it’s— it’s incredibly fucking good. It makes him want to turn a little, twist his body and catch Eliot’s mouth with his, kiss him for hours. He’s not getting hard about it — not yet, anyway — but he’s a little worried he might, if he stays here long.

And his predicament isn’t _helped_ at all by Tien asking, “So what’s the story with you two? Margo told us you’re dating.”

Quentin thinks he feels Eliot’s heart jump a little against his back, but it might just be an echo of his own suddenly-racing pulse. “That’s the story,” he says, shrugging. “What else is there to tell?”

“Um, only _everything_ ,” Daniel says. “How’d you meet, who made the first move, how’s the sex, all the juicy details.”

“I’d gotten on Henry’s — the Dean’s — bad side _somehow_ , and as a punishment he made me wait for some new student and make sure he actually showed up for his exam. Completely ruined my plans for a lovely afternoon,” Eliot says theatrically. “Of course, once I _saw_ said new student, I wasn’t quite as mad about it.”

“Ooh, love at first sight,” Jillian says, resting her chin on her hand.

“Something at first sight, anyway,” Eliot says, his hand sliding further up Quentin’s thigh.

This is the strategy they had agreed on, before they left Brakebills: keep the cover story as close to the truth as possible. Easier to remember that way. They met Quentin’s first day, they became friends, somewhere along the line they started dating, and now here they are. At a fuck festival. As a couple. So Quentin goes for something true: “Right, _something_. You looked at me like, _target acquired_ , the second I walked up to you.”

“Can you blame me?” Eliot continues smoothly. “Anyway, luckily he made it through his test, or I would’ve had to go out and track him down after he got mind-wiped to bone him, and that’s just a whole lot of work.”

“We were friends first,” Quentin says, wondering why Eliot feels the need to embellish like this. Weren’t they supposed to be keeping it simple? “Margo and El kind of adopted me. Showed me around. Basically kept me from flunking out, my first month.”

“And then there was this party.” Eliot chuckles, low in his chest, like he’s remembering something fondly. “One of our best, wouldn’t you say, Margo?”

“It was fine,” Margo says breezily. “Would’ve been better if you hadn’t ditched me to go touch butts an hour into it, but you’d been pining for weeks, so I let it slide.”

Eliot tenses, a little. Quentin wouldn’t have noticed if he weren’t literally _sitting in his lap_ , but he is, so he does. “Pining,” he starts, then seems to think better of it. “...is not my favorite state of being.”

“So it was lucky for you I kissed you,” Quentin jumps in. Two can play at the embellishment game. He wouldn’t have — god, he’s not a fucking _idiot_ — but maybe Fake Quentin is braver. Or stupider.

Eliot tenses some more, his hand tightening on Quentin’s leg. “It was… unexpected,” he says. “But certainly not unwelcome, as you now know.” 

He shifts his weight, making Quentin kind of list to the side, putting a hand out on the bench to keep his balance— which makes his torso twist— which puts him face to face with Eliot— who is _leaning in_ —

Quentin can’t help the little noise he makes when their lips meet for the third time in two days. Eliot’s shifted his arms to hold Quentin in place on his lap at this new angle, so Quentin can just kind of melt into his grasp, kiss him hungrily. If he weren’t so drunk he’d hold himself back more; if he were more drunk he’d have a better excuse for his behavior. As it is, he can’t really pretend that he’s doing anything other thanexactly what he wants to do, so fucking badly.

They break apart too soon for Quentin’s taste, as Margo reaches out and smacks Eliot on the arm. “Finish the story, you lovesick idiots,” she says. “Let us talk about something else.”

“The story?” Eliot repeats, sounding a little dazed.

Quentin swallows and turns back to the group. “Yeah, that’s basically it,” he says. “We’ve been dating ever since. I moved dorms to the same house as El and Margo, so I basically just live in Eliot’s room, now.” Not untrue, he’s up there every other day at least to do homework or get drunk or listen while Eliot and Margo gossip. 

For a second he lets himself feel it: what it’d be like, if everything they’d said was the truth, not just truth-adjacent. If Eliot had had his eye on him from day one, if Quentin had kissed him at a party, if they’d spent the last few months kissing and fucking and really being _together_. A huge smile spreads across his face as warmth floods his system. “It’s been really great,” he says, to sell it.

“All right, so clearly the sex is good,” Tien says, smirking at them. Quentin’s not sure how he came to that conclusion.

“Who tops?” Adam asks.

Oh, right, that’s a thing that people who are actually in guy-on-guy relationships have an answer for. “Mostly El,” he says, at the same time as Eliot says, “I do,” very firmly.

Quentin twists again to look at him. “Why’d you say it like that?”

“Like what?” Eliot looks amused.

“Like it’s an every time thing.” Quentin doesn’t know why, but he suddenly feels an extremely strong need to clarify this. “I also, I mean— we do it both ways.” 

The growing smile on Eliot’s face is infuriating. “Sure, while you were still learning to take my cock,” he says. “But we haven’t in a while, baby.” He pets down the side of Quentin’s face with his thumb. “Do you want that? Wanna fuck me on the beach here? We can make that happen.”

Oh, _shit_. Quentin’s never had his bluff so emphatically called. He’s hard in basically an instant, dick straining against his shorts. “Wouldn’t say no,” he manages.

“I’d watch,” Marie says, and the rest of the group makes noises of assent.

Quentin feels lightheaded, a little. Eliot’s hand settles where his neck meets his shoulder, squeezing, massaging. Those long, talented fingers — Magician’s fingers — over his skin, near where his pulse is beating wildly in his throat— “I don’t know about that,” he says faintly.

“Yeah, Q’s more into watching than being watched,” Eliot says, his eyes never leaving Quentin’s. Quentin’s brain kind of hiccups, overwhelmed with Eliot’s piercing gaze and the absolutely nonsensical shit he just said — how does _he_ know, anyway, why would he— where is he getting all these _ideas_ from?

“Well in that case,” Daniel says. “Anyone want to adjourn to the performance tents and watch me and Marcus?”

More noises of agreement, and the people around them start standing, rearranging. Quentin’s still staring at Eliot, unable to move, barely able to breathe. Eliot’s voice keeps pounding through his head: _Wanna fuck me on the beach here? Wanna fuck me? Wanna?_ And the thought morphs, too, spiraling out in unbearably arousing fractals: _Wanna kiss me? Wanna touch my cock? Wanna suck it? Wanna have it in you?_

He has lots of experience wanting things he can’t have. Like, a _lot_. He has less experience with wanting things and _almost but not quite_ being able to have them.

“You good, Q?” Eliot murmurs, speaking under the laughter and banter happening around them, for just Quentin to hear. “You don’t have to go watch.”

Quentin takes a deep breath, trying to get his brain situated back in his body. “You did just tell them I like it,” he says. “It’d be kind of weird if I left.”

“I could go with you,” Eliot offers. “They’d think we just went to go have sex. You could go find a hookup or go to bed, and I could go dancing. Nobody would question it.”

So if they don’t go — if they don’t go, Eliot’s done with him for the evening. They’ll part ways, see each other tomorrow sometime. Instead of having Eliot’s hand on his shoulder, Eliot’s strong thighs under him, he’d have — someone else, or nobody. And those options, at this moment, are unacceptable. “I want to go,” he says firmly.

Eliot raises his eyebrows. “Okay,” he says, sounding tentatively pleased. “Do you actually like to watch?”

Like Quentin’s ever had an opportunity to _watch anyone have sex_ before. For fuck’s sake. “We’re about to find out, I guess.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin’s brain, which is entirely hormones and mist, flashes back to earlier in the day: warm stones pressing into his back, embarrassment churning in his stomach. _Try fucking someone in front of him._
> 
> _See what happens._

The performance tents are, quite literally, a series of tents on a nearby Green beach, similar on the outside to the one Quentin was in earlier today. These are enchanted to be bigger on the inside, though (and yeah, Quentin _does_ have a minorly giddy geek moment when he thinks that phrase to himself, sue him). There’s a bed in here, raised on a short platform in the center of the space, and all around it are cushions, blankets, pillows, mattresses. The members of their little group are already settling in when they arrive. Quentin glances around to find Margo and spots her on a mattress with her face buried between Jillian’s thighs. 

“Are we, uh,” he mutters to Eliot, feeling the flush across his cheeks deepen, “Are we all performing for — each other?”

“Hm? Oh, no, Bambi just can’t resist a cute thick girl,” Eliot says casually. “Marcus and Daniel will fuck on the bed up there. The rest of us can get ourselves off, get each other off, whatever we want. Obviously we can all see each other, so it’s not private, but the focus will be on the people up on stage.”

“Okay,” Quentin says, as Eliot rearranges pillows so he can lean back against them and see the action on the bed without straining his neck. Off to their right, Marie is naked, absently teasing her nipples as she watches Marcus kiss his way down Daniel’s neck. Quentin’s just — very hard, he’s very hard, from everything earlier and now there’s a very hot woman about to get herself off right next to him, and on his left Eliot is taking his shirt off, sliding his shorts down but leaving his underwear on. Quentin can’t decide if that’s a relief or the most intense fucking tease he’s ever experienced. He settles into his own little stack of pillows a few feet from Eliot’s and takes his shirt off, not wanting to be the only fully-dressed person at the group jerk-off session.

Daniel makes a gesture, and the glowy ambient light in the tent changes, leaving the central bed mostly illuminated and the rest of the room in sultry shadow. Then he turns, kissing Marcus, pushing him back onto the bed and making him gasp happily.

Quentin can’t hold back his own gasp. He’d thought this would just feel like— watching porn? But in person? But it already feels way different than that. There are no fancy camera angles, there’s no running cameraman commentary or terrible background music. The only sounds are skin on skin, moans and gasps and the wet noise of kissing — other wet noises from elsewhere in the room — and he swears he can _feel_ the desire radiating off the two men in the bed. It’s infectious, and it’s getting him even more worked up.

Daniel and Marcus are both tall and limber and well muscled, and they move together like they have years of practice. Quentin vaguely remembers from the conversation over dinner that that’s probably the case. Each of them clearly knows what the other one likes: Daniel keeps his palms on Marcus’s shoulders, holding him down, while Marcus bucks up against him to rub their dicks together — both lovely, both getting nice and hard, and Marcus is pretty fucking big. Quentin rubs the heel of his hand over the bulge in his shorts where his erection is pressing against the fabric, tries to bite back the slightly desperate noise he makes.

It takes a little while for his self-consciousness to wear off, but eventually, as Quentin’s watching Daniel kiss his way down Marcus’s torso until he slides his mouth over his dick, the heel of his hand just isn’t enough anymore. He grips his dick through his clothes — better but still not good enough, not with the filthy wet sounds of a blowjob in progress and the _noise_ Marcus just made — then goes for his zipper, shoves his shorts and boxers down to get a hand around himself. He closes his eyes for a second at the first touch of his fingers, arousal arcing through his body like lightning. He shudders, waits for it to subside a little, just holds his dick until he’s not quite so close to the edge.

When he opens his eyes again, Daniel’s got one of Marcus’s legs up over his shoulder, spreading him open. He works his hands in a series of tuts, and suddenly his fingers are shining wet, there’s liquid dripping onto Marcus’s body, running in rivulets down Daniel’s arm. Daniel presses his slick fingers to Marcus’s hole, smiles a wolfish smile as Marcus pushes against him and groans.

That seems like — a _really useful_ spell to know, especially at a sex festival but also just for everyday life? Good lube is expensive. Being able to just conjure it from nowhere would be great. And since he always goes to Margo or Eliot to learn new spells, and he knows Margo is definitely occupied — he turns his head without even thinking about it, hoping to catch Eliot’s eye, ask him for a quick lesson—

That was a mistake. It was a giant fucking mistake, because Eliot’s briefs are gone, and he’s got a huge hand around his huge dick (and _Jesus_ it is _even bigger_ hard, obviously, that’s how dicks work, but like _how_ ), his fingers slick and shining as well as he touches himself, long smooth strokes from base to tip.

“Holy shit,” Quentin breathes. He can’t help it, it’s out of him before his brain even realizes it’s happening. 

Eliot looks away from the show, towards Quentin, and his body jolts a little, which, Quentin has no idea what that’s about — was he not expecting Quentin to look at him? Was he not expecting Quentin to be jerking off? Or is it— I mean, it _could_ be a good thing, right, if Eliot sees something he likes? That could be what’s happening. And he’s biting his lip, squeezing at the base of his dick, so, more evidence for that theory.

Eliot takes a shaking breath and lets go of himself, relaxing back against his pillows. “You need the lube spell?” he whispers, and Quentin — right, yeah, that’s, that’s why he looked over, before — nods. Eliot nods back and holds up his big, slick, gorgeous hands in casting position. “Okay, watch me.”

It’s a small miracle that Quentin manages to follow along with the tuts, but he does, eyes glued to Eliot’s fingers until there’s a rush of liquid over his own palm, thin and warm and slippery. His fingers slide beautifully over his skin as he takes himself back in hand. He groans, louder than he means to, but he’s not the only one — somewhere else in the tent someone is gasping, and someone else grunts, deep and desperate.

Even Eliot is making noise, just a little, cut-off and choked like he’s trying to hold it in. Quentin resists looking, watches Daniel easing his cock slowly into Marcus’s hole and lets Eliot’s sounds hit him like little darts of pure arousal. It’s hot, the scene they’re watching: two gorgeous guys enjoying each other, putting on a show just for their little group. It’s objectively very, very hot. So that’s, that’s why Quentin is so keyed up he feels like he could probably come in about thirty seconds if he just worked himself a little harder — and the thrill of it, of getting off surrounded by strangers, of being _invited in_ to this secret, intimate place, that’s even better, that’s what’s making his nipples tighten, his skin prickle—

—he can’t, he fucking can’t help it anymore, he looks over again at Eliot, watches him stroke that thick fucking cock, the tension in his arm, the angle of his fingers. His gaze traces up Eliot’s body, stomach, chest, _throat_ , every glorious inch of him. Eliot has his eyes closed, long lashes dark against his cheeks, his head tipped back, mouth open. Quentin knows what his mouth _tastes_ like, how his tongue feels against his lips, and he wants to kiss him so bad he feels like he could drown in it. 

The dim light glows blue over Eliot’s skin, lean muscles and sleek hip bones and Jesus there’s that cock again, Quentin had half convinced himself that his horny short-term memory must have exaggerated how big it was, but it _didn’t_. It didn’t. It really didn’t. It’s long and thick and the head is dark with blood. Quentin’s mouth is _physically watering_ , god. His hand is flying on his own dick — too fast, he can’t be the first person to come at the fuck party, that’d be embarrassing, but he can’t watch Eliot like this, straight out of his wildest jerk-off fantasies, and _not_ chase his release. Eliot’s beautiful mouth lets out another choked-off moan, his free hand is rubbing over his nipples— 

It’s too much. It’s too fucking much, Quentin wants him _so fucking badly_ , he’s going to come and then immediately die if he doesn’t stop looking. Exerting more willpower than he knew he possessed, he rolls himself to the right, turning onto his side so he can’t see Eliot anymore. He lets go of his dick, whining a little, reaches out and brushes his fingers against Marie’s upper arm. She looks over at him, surprised, interested.

“Can I go down on you?” he gasps. “I need to do _something_ , I just— need—”

“With that pretty mouth? Of course you can,” she says, and grabs Quentin’s hand to drag him over, position him between her thighs.

She’s dripping wet already, and her hand that tangles in his hair to pull him forward is slick with it. Quentin moans as soon as he tastes her, the heady scent rushing through him. This, _this_ , is something he _can_ have. And it’s something he _knows_ , thank you college girlfriend who was kind of awful but at least left him with some _transferable skills_ when she broke his heart. He licks at her already swollen clit, focuses on the tug of her fingers and the flex of her thighs to learn what she likes. There are moans coming from everywhere in the tent. Some might even be coming from him, he’s not entirely sure anymore; everything has narrowed down to the heat of her cunt, the repetitive up-down-around pattern he’s found that has her gasping, starting to tighten around the finger he’s slipped inside her.

He forgets where he is, forgets there are people fucking for his viewing pleasure. It’s so much better to bury his face between Marie’s legs, put his mouth to work doing one of the few things it’s good at, than it is to just stroke himself and _want_. Her inner thighs are pressed against his face, the little thatch of curls above her cunt tickles his nose. Her body curves and arches, pushing into him, little breathy wordless noises getting higher and higher pitched. He feels them in his chest as clearly as if she were saying _good job, Quentin — good boy — you’re good — you’re good_ —

She tightens down hard on his fingers when she comes, bucking under him. He pulls his face back a little, carefully licks the less sensitive parts of her while she shakes her way down from it. Before his awareness of the rest of the world can return, she hauls him up her body, kisses him hard. 

“Not bad,” she murmurs against his mouth. “Maybe I should keep you.”

He shudders, tries not to just collapse on top of her. Her skin is so _warm_ and his face is a mess, he’s getting wetness everywhere as he nuzzles into her neck, kisses her collarbone.

“I don’t feel like getting fucked,” she says, “but you could rub that pretty cock against my pussy, if you’d like.”

Quentin _would_ like, he’d like very much, and he nods so frantically his neck twinges. He gasps when she hooks a leg over the backs of his thighs and shifts so he’s in place, his aching cock pressed against the slick heat of her, and his hips start moving without even needing his brain’s permission. She watches him with a pleased little smile, eyes flicking between his face and the show she can still see over his shoulder.

“So hot for it,” she murmurs. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you hadn’t gotten off yet the whole time you’d been here.” There’s a stray piece of hair in his face, sticking to his wet cheek, and she brushes it away, long fingernails scraping over his superheated skin. “Did that pretty boy of yours tell you you had to wait? Let you get yourself all worked up, then make you stay good for him?”

 _Good for him_ — Quentin could do that, could be _so_ good for him, if Eliot asked. It’s so easy to imagine: Eliot’s hand stroking his hair, curling around the back of his neck. Eliot’s lips against the shell of his ear, whispering _good boy, baby, just a little longer. I know, she feels so good, so slick under that pretty cock, but wait— wait for me to say— and_ — now—

Quentin comes so hard his thighs ache, a shocked moan falling from his lips as his orgasm wrenches out of him. Marie laughs and rolls her hips when his stop moving, working the last few shudders out of him.

“I hope you were allowed to do that,” she says, “or you’re going to be in big trouble.”

Quentin’s dick twitches hopefully, like maybe it can get instantly hard again if she just keeps saying nonsensically hot things to him. He leans in to brush his lips to hers, moans when she kisses back hard.

“I can clean up your mess with a spell,” she says, when his heart is almost back to a normal rhythm. “Or you’re welcome to clean me up with your tongue. Thoughts?”

“I’ll do my best,” Quentin says, squirming his way back down. Now that his head is marginally clearer, he can hear moans, again. Someone is having what sounds like an incredible orgasm, he thinks from the voice it might be Margo, which, _fuck_ , how is he even getting to _hear_ that? The noises from the central bed are unmistakably enthusiastic fucking, the smack of skin on skin, sharp grunts with every stroke. His dick twitches harder as he imagines what must be happening, and he almost turns to look — but _no_ , Marie told him what he had to do. He can look when he’s done his job.

He licks her until she grabs at his hair again and holds him in place, grinding up against his tongue. By the time he’s worked her through a second orgasm he’s half hard again, and he remembers that in addition to the protection and contraception spells over this whole fucking wild place the guide also mentioned spells to _help revelers be ready for anything_ , so that’s probably what’s going on there.

He rolls off her so he can look back at the stage, where, yep, Marcus has his ass in the air and his face crushed into the mattress, Daniel fucking into him at a breathless pace. They’re both lost in it, seeming entirely unaware that anyone else is in the room with them, just chasing their pleasure without a care in the world. He watches Daniel’s hands caress his partner’s sides, and his own hands smooth unbidden over his own ribs, grabbing at his hips, imagining— just _imagining_. Quentin’s always been good at imagining.

 _Speaking of which_ , his instincts remind him, and he looks over to the place he really shouldn’t look, where Eliot — Eliot is still there, still laid out like all of Quentin’s wet dreams distilled into one image. But now Tien is kneeling over him with his lips wrapped around that head of that fucking huge cock, sucking on it like his life depends on it.

Lust and jealousy and who the fuck knows what else flare spiky and painful in Quentin’s chest. He has a crazed moment where he wants to crawl over there, shove Tien away — or maybe join him, lick up the side of Eliot’s shaft while Tien works the tip, kiss him when his mouth is full of Eliot’s come—

Jesus, these spells must be stronger than Quentin thought. That’s fucking dirty even for him.

He doesn’t have a chance to put any of his half-formed plans into action, because Eliot is grabbing at Tien’s shoulder, mouthing something Quentin can’t actually hear but _knows_ in his bones is _I’m close, get ready_. Quentin is frozen in place, every muscle taut, watching Eliot’s abs jump under his skin, his back arch. Eliot throws his head back and he closes his eyes and he _laughs_ , delighted, as his body shakes and he comes and someone who _isn’t Quentin_ sucks him all the way through it.

Tien pulls away, swallows, and Eliot, chest heaving, starts to sit up, pull him in by the shoulder for a deep kiss. He must be able to taste himself, this soon after, but he licks into Tien’s mouth anyway and runs one of those huge palms down to cup Tien’s hard cock. 

Quentin’s brain, which is entirely hormones and mist, flashes back to earlier in the day: warm stones pressing into his back, embarrassment churning in his stomach. _Try fucking someone in front of him._

_See what happens._

Quentin flails his way over to them, limbs only slightly obeying his commands. Tien pulls out of the kiss to grin at him lazily. Eliot looks stunned, scared, almost.

“I’d love to finish you off,” Quentin tells Tien, putting a hand on the small of his back. He takes a deep breath, meets Eliot’s eyes with a boldness he extremely does not feel. “As long as you don’t mind, baby?”

Eliot continues to look stunned for a second, then blinks hard. “Of course not,” he purrs. “I love watching you work.”

 _Jesus,_ Quentin is hard. 

He sits back as Tien rearranges and then pretty much dives onto his cock, no thoughts head empty dick in mouth now now now. He _more or less_ knows how to do this, and the two people he’s gotten to do it for before have praised his enthusiasm if not his skill. So he relaxes his jaw and licks, sucks, lets himself drool everywhere and make it all wet and messy. Tien’s dick is a great size for sucking, sliding hard and hot over Quentin’s tongue, just big enough that Quentin can experiment with taking it all the way down, letting it bump into his soft palate. He’s nicely vocal, too, telling Quentin how good his mouth feels, when to change up his rhythm and when to keep at it, that’s it, use your tongue _right there_.

“Does he like his hair pulled?” Tien asks breathlessly, and Quentin thinks it’s weird he’s suddenly switched into third person but then he realizes he’s asking _Eliot_. Quentin’s been doing his best to focus on the dick he actually _has_ in his mouth, so he knew he was _there_ , obviously, but he was kind of— ignoring Eliot, for self preservation reasons, but now— Quentin looks up with a mouthful of cock to see how he's going to deal with this question that Fake Eliot should have the answer to but Real Eliot has zero way to know. 

Eliot’s staring directly at Quentin, and when their eyes meet a shudder runs through him. Then he takes in a huge breath and his mouth curls up into a sly smile. “He loves it,” he tells Tien. “Go hard.”

For a split-second Quentin isn’t sure that was the right answer, but then Tien’s long fingers fist into his hair and _squeeze_ and— Jesus _fuck_. Why does that feel so _good_? The pain radiates down the back of his neck and over his skin and is just pure pleasure by the time it reaches his dick. His hips rut instinctively against the cushions beneath him. He moans, and sucks, and even though he came maybe ten minutes ago he feels himself building towards a peak again already, heat and tension deep inside him.

It’s not much longer before Tien gasps and chokes out a warning. Quentin keeps his steady rhythm, measured with his heartbeat and his breathing and the thrust of his hips against the cushions, and then he’s swallowing, floating, tears in his eyes from Tien yanking on his hair and shivers of pleasure skimming all over his body as his cock pulses in his mouth. 

As soon as he’s done coming, Tien starts massaging his scalp, soothing the sore places. He helps Quentin move from being sprawled on his front to being up on all fours, steadies him with firm hands on his shoulders.

“Your mouth is incredible,” he says, swiping a thumb across Quentin’s open lips. “Eliot’s a lucky man.”

 _Eliot_. Quentin looks over, too dazed to remember not to, and yep, there he is. Quentin’s desperately hard dick fucking twitches at the sight of him. He looks as wrecked as Quentin feels, flushed and breathing like he just ran a mile at a dead sprint, hair tangled across his forehead and almost into his eyes. His hand is a blur on his cock. 

“Q,” he gasps, voice cracking. “Q— fuck—”

Quentin whines wordlessly. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to crawl over to him, grab his dick — kiss him — suck him down — all he can think about is the need curled tight in his balls and his belly, how fucking badly he needs to come. He tuts blindingly fast through the lube spell, gets it everywhere, gets his hand around his dick again and jerks off until it’s too much and he’s coming all over the cushions below him.

Quentin pats Tien on the thigh, hoping that’s enough of a thank you, and rolls away to sprawl on his back, staring up at the pristine white fabric of the tent. From the sound of it, the party has mostly wrapped up. He can hear soft kissing noises, murmured words and quiet laughter. A single smack rings through the air, and someone yelps and then giggles.

The cushions beside him shift, and a big hand smooths his hair back from his sweaty forehead. “Are you okay?” Eliot asks, softly.

Quentin lifts his head an inch or so, just enough to see that Eliot’s got his shorts back on. He must have finished and recovered faster than Quentin did. He flails around with one arm, searching for some kind of clothing. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m, it’s fine. I’m just a little worn out.”

Eliot snaps his fingers and a fluffy white towel whisks through the air from a little cabinet by the tent entrance. He hands it to Quentin to cover himself up. “That got a bit more intense than I thought it would,” he says. “I hope—” His face contorts with concern. “I hope you had fun.”

“I did,” Quentin says firmly. Eliot looks unconvinced, so he adds, “Can we, uh. Talk about this back at the villa? Maybe?”

The lights are gradually brightening again, there’s more shifting in the cushions on the floor — people are walking past them as they leave the tent. Eliot’s expression smoothes out into a satisfied smile. “All fucked out for the night, huh?” he asks. “Looked like you came pretty hard.”

God, what is Quentin’s _life_ , that Eliot is talking casually with him about orgasms? And not in like, a teasing way, but as a— a genuine question? Quentin’s face feels hot. “Yeah,” he says. “Um. Twice.”

Surprisingly, Eliot flushes. “I only saw the one,” he murmurs. Then he shakes his head a little. “All right, baby. Let’s get you to bed.”

They walk in silence back to the villa, and while there’s plenty of ambient noise — laughter and animated conversations from people they pass on the path, music blasting from various dance floors, someone screaming a partner’s name in one of the villas closest to the walkway — it’s still kind of strange. Eliot holds Quentin’s hand loosely, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to. Which is patently ridiculous, they just— Quentin just sucked someone’s dick and then jerked off in front of him, and _hand-holding_ is the thing he’s feeling weird about?

“You want to shower?” Eliot asks, when they arrive at their cozy, softly lit villa. It really is the fucking nicest place Quentin’s ever stayed. He’s enjoyed exploring the festival, but he kinda wants to spend some time here before they leave, relax and hide away from so many _people_ for a little while.

“That’d be good,” Quentin says, before realizing there was some amount of ambiguity in that question: did Eliot mean Quentin by himself, or both of them together? As fucked-out as he is, the thought of Eliot all wet and slick up against the slate tiles of the shower wall makes his dick send out a little pulse of interest, the _u up?_ of bodily functions.

“I’ll go after you,” Eliot says, settling himself down on the couch. “The purple bottle of body wash has some restorative charms on it, if you’re sore at all. Use as much as you want, they’ll bring us more.”

Of course. They’re in their own villa, there’s no reason for Eliot to do anything with him here. No need to keep up their act in private. Obviously.

Quentin showers with the hottest water he can stand, trying to jolt himself out of this weird dream he’s fallen into where he somehow thinks Eliot actually _wants him_. The answer to _fuck someone in front of him, see what happens_ is apparently _we’ll jerk off separately and then go to bed_ , because what the fuck else could it have been, honestly? Margo’s brilliant, but she’s so used to everyone wanting her that she must have forgotten that it's not how the world works for everyone. Certainly not for Quentin. Especially not with _Eliot_ , god, how had he even thought for a _second_ —

He’s so cranky by the time he finishes his shower and dries off that he chugs a sleep-easy potion. It kept him from having any weird dreams last time. Maybe this time it’ll reset his brain, relax him enough that he remembers he signed up for this. He signed up for a week of _bang whoever you want_ , a week of _we won’t have to do anything sexual together_ , and Eliot’s just— abiding by the terms of their deal. Quentin really, _really_ has to let go of this insane hope that anything else is going to come out of this.

He’s snuggled into the covers, eyelids so very heavy, breathing even, when the bathroom door opens and a cloud of steam billows out. “Oh,” Eliot says, then drops the volume of his voice. “You really are beat, huh?”

Quentin nods. These pillowcases are so nice and soft. “You can go keep partying,” he says through a yawn. “‘M just gonna sleep.”

“I wasn’t—” Eliot starts. He gazes for a moment at the bedroom door, then shakes his head, casts some charm that wrings all the water out of his hair, and heads for his suitcase. Quentin closes the single eye he’d opened. “I thought you wanted to talk,” he thinks he hears Eliot say, from what sounds like a million miles away, “but maybe— you’d rather talk in the morning.”

“Mm,” Quentin says. There’s probably not much to talk about, but with the potion soothing him down into sleep he doesn’t remember why that is, or why he was so upset about it earlier.

The last thing he’s even halfway aware of is the brush of something soft and damp across his cheek, a slight pressure on his temple. He exhales deeply, and then doesn’t notice anything else.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot looks at him intently. “I’ll still ask before we do anything new, and I’m going to trust you to say no whenever you need to,” he says. “You can trust me to do the same.”
> 
> Quentin nods, swallowing.
> 
> “Excellent!” Eliot claps his hands together once. “Important but tedious business taken care of. Let’s go have fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific acknowledgements for this chapter can be found in the endnotes so I don't spoil anything up front. :) Thank you as always to my intrepid beta and joke-puncher-upper [Sylph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akisazame/pseuds/akisazame).

Quentin expects to wake up either alone or to a vague glimpse of messy dark hair about a mile away on the opposite side of the bed. So it’s — surprising, a little, when the messy dark hair is only about a foot away from him, and it’s attached to a definitely awake, definitely looking right at him Eliot.

“Morning,” Eliot says with an air of well-rehearsed cheer. He gestures to Quentin’s bedside table, which already has one of those silver room service trays on it. “Coffee? Take your pick.”

Quentin pushes himself up to sitting and chooses the iced coffee. “Thanks,” he says. His head is remarkably clear of cobwebs thanks to the potion, but he’s still a little confused as to why Eliot is here, instead of off having morning sex with whoever he hooked up with after Quentin went to sleep. “Everything okay?”

“That depends,” Eliot says carefully. “On my end, absolutely. But last night you wanted to — talk, and so I need to make sure—” He pauses, and his casual expression flickers with concern. “Last night escalated a bit faster than I was expecting it to, and I have to ask: did I push you into something you didn’t want to do?”

Quentin frowns. “No? Like, it was a lot going on all at once, but it was all good things.”

Eliot inspects one of his fingernails. “You seemed kind of out of it, afterwards.”

“I mean I’d just had more sex in one evening than in the previous, like— year, maybe? So. Yeah, I was kind of, uh. Fucked out.” He sips his coffee, hoping the cold drink will somehow cancel out the hot flush he can feel creeping across his face from talking about sex with Eliot. “I feel way better now, though. Just needed some sleep.”

“And the specific things you— the things that happened. All okay?”

No amount of iced coffee is going to help the blush that races over Quentin’s skin when he thinks about _the things that happened_ the previous night. “Yeah? Uh. I’d say, um, more than okay? Fun?”

“Are you saying that because you think I want to hear it?”

“No?” It’s probably not reassuring that he keeps phrasing statements like questions, but Eliot isn’t making a whole lot of sense. “No. I liked — all the things I did.” Eliot is looking at him sidelong, his lips pressed into a weird, tight line. “Okay, what’s going on with you? Are you— am I missing something?”

“Did you actually want to suck that guy’s dick?” Eliot asks, not meeting Quentin’s eyes. “Because if you just did that to keep up our little charade, then— that’s not okay. I shouldn’t have put you in that position.”

“Of course I did,” Quentin says, baffled. “I _asked_ to. I’m not going to ask for things I don't actually want.”

“Okay,” Eliot says, sounding relieved but still staring down at his hands, worrying at his cuticles. “Just checking.”

There’s a weird surge of guilt in Quentin’s belly, seeing the tension in Eliot’s broad shoulders, the line of his neck. “I know you probably weren’t, like, _watching_ , mostly,” he says, “but uh— if you had been, I, um. It would’ve been pretty fucking obvious how much I liked it. I was like.” God, is he saying this? He’s saying this. “Really fucking hard, from sucking him.”

“Right,” Eliot says slowly. “Not watching.”

“And, uh,” Quentin continues, desperate to hide his disappointment that Eliot hadn’t even been _looking_ at him, when he’d been doing his best to put on a show — but why would he have been, he doesn’t — whatever. “The, the hair pulling? Thing? I don’t know how you knew, but like.” He clutches the cool glass of his coffee cup. “That was, um, a fun thing to learn about myself, so. Thanks.”

“A fun thing to learn about yourself?” Eliot asks. His tone is closer to normal, now: a little amused, a little sultry. He rolls onto his side, props himself against the pillows so he’s looking right at Quentin. “Don’t tell me you’ve never let anyone pull your hair before.”

“Nobody’s ever asked,” Quentin says, baffled.

“Nobody’s ever pushed you around a little? Who _have_ you been sleeping with?”

Quentin bristles. “Not everyone has your— _breadth of experience_ , Eliot.”

“True,” Eliot drawls, “I am a big slut.” He laughs at Quentin’s horrified expression. “I’m not going to take offense, Q. It’s simply a fact. I enjoy it. But this does bring me to my next topic.” He gestures, and the cup of hot coffee Quentin had passed up in favor of iced lifts itself off the room service tray and floats to his outstretched hand. “If we’re going to end up in situations like last night, we should talk about boundaries.”

“Do we have to?” Quentin’s skin feels so overheated he’s worried the sheets might burst into flames. “Can’t we just let things kind of, happen as they happen?”

“No,” Eliot says firmly. “I told you when I invited you we wouldn’t have to do anything sexual together, and _letting things happen_ has led to us crossing that line without having a chance to discuss first.” He apparently misinterprets the look on Quentin’s face as one of confusion rather than agonizing sexual frustration, because he clarifies, “I consider masturbating together and watching each other fuck to be fairly sexual.”

“Yeah, that— tracks,” Quentin chokes out.

“Are you all right with those things happening again? Or would you prefer not to?”

“No, that’s fine.”

“What about nonsexual touching while we’re having sex with others? Like, if I had put my hand on your shoulder while you were blowing Tien, would that have been all right?”

It would have been all right except for the part where it would have made Quentin fucking cream himself instantly, which would have been embarrassing. “Yeah.”

“Kissing while having sex with others?” Quentin nods. “Having sex with the same person at once?” Eliot’s eyes glitter and Quentin is honestly going to die, here, in this bed, at the age of twenty three. “Daddy loves a nice spitroast.”

“Okay, you calling yourself Daddy is like, the least okay thing about that sentence,” Quentin says. At Eliot’s calmly raised eyebrow, he says, “But the rest of it— yeah. I’m fine having sex with the same person at once.”

“My little adventurer,” Eliot purrs. Quentin has got to get this _little_ thing dealt with, he’s— average height for men in the US is five nine, he’s not _that_ far off— “Do you want to touch my dick?”

Iced coffee out the nose is _really_ unpleasant. Quentin coughs and shakes his head to try and clear his sinuses, then looks forlornly at the stain on the white sheets in front of him.

“All right, we’ve found our boundary,” Eliot says nonchalantly, doing a quick spell that wrings the coffee out of the fabric.

“No, I—” Quentin is so stupid. Quentin is _so stupid_ , how is he— how can this sentence possibly end without being the worst thing he’s ever said? “It sounded like an invitation, the way you said it,” he says, infusing his voice with as much humor as he can muster. Ha ha, silly me, you’ll never _believe_ what I _thought_ you were asking me to do, here and now, right in front of my iced coffee. “That’s fine. If it’s fine with you.”

“I’m only asking about things I’m okay with.” Eliot is back to looking at his hands. “So, if you touch my dick in the course of whatever else we’re doing, I’m fine with that. And vice versa, if I touch yours?”

Quentin is also, coincidentally, looking at Eliot’s hands. “Totally fine,” he says, instead of _I would crawl over broken glass to get your fingers on my cock._ God. He really, it’s not nice of Eliot to be sitting a foot away from him, looking like he does, talking about this. It’s cruel.

“That seems to cover the basics, then. Anything you want to add?”

“I don’t think so? I guess, uh. The hair pulling thing, you can— that’s okay, if that’s happening, and you want to join in. Or not, if I uh.” How to phrase _it would make my cock hard enough to hammer nails, and that might be weird for you_. “I’d probably enjoy it a lot, so if that’s over the line for you, you don’t have to.”

“Not over the line,” Eliot says cheerfully. “The point isn’t to keep you from enjoying the things you’re okay with, it’s to make sure we don’t end up in territory where you’re no longer comfortable with what’s happening, but feel like you have to pretend to enjoy it anyway.”

“I’ll say no if I don’t want to do something,” Quentin says. “That’s, people in relationships do that, right? Say no thanks? So that won’t be weird. I’m not so invested in our cover story that I’m gonna let you, I don’t know, _take advantage of me_.” He thought doing air quotes around that last phrase would lighten the mood, but he’s pretty sure it just made him look like a lunatic. “We’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.”

Eliot looks at him intently. “I’ll still ask before we do anything new, and I’m going to trust you to say no whenever you need to,” he says. “You can trust me to do the same.”

Quentin nods, swallowing.

“Excellent!” Eliot claps his hands together once. “Important but tedious business taken care of. Let’s go have fun.” 

He kicks off the blankets and stands, and Quentin freezes with his coffee cup halfway to his lips, because apparently this new phase of their friendship that they entered last night is one in which Eliot feels comfortable sleeping _entirely fucking naked_ like a foot away from Quentin. Jesus _fucking_ Christ.

On the plus side, he’s apparently gotten accustomed enough to seeing Eliot’s naked body that he’s only sporting a little bit of a hard-on about it. So that’s progress.

An hour later, they venture out into the gorgeous sunny day, dressed for _Day four - daytime_ (and don't think Quentin hasn't noticed his shorts getting gradually shorter every day, _Margo_ — soon he’s barely going to be able to fit Eliot’s watch into his pocket). 

They don’t even get through breakfast at one of the little beachside crepe stands in the Red zone before they start giving their new set of boundaries an _extremely thorough_ workout. Quentin’s mouth is still full of ham and gruyere when a guy invites them to go skinny-dipping in a little lagoon in the Green zone with him and a couple of friends. The water is crystal clear and there are lovely beds of lush vegetation around the edge of the pool, perfect for, say, reclining on while trading handjobs with Crepe Stand Guy and watching one’s “boyfriend” get blown by someone with, it appears, absolutely no gag reflex. Because Quentin is a goddamn masochist, he really _studies_ what Eliot does when he comes: the way his eyes close, how his mouth spreads into a grin and opens in a breathless laugh. That laugh is going to be seared into Quentin’s memory, which will make it awkward when they get back to Brakebills and he gets spontaneously hard every time Eliot finds something funny, but that’s a problem for future Quentin to deal with.

From there, they head to a pavilion Eliot’s heard about where someone is testing out a new kind of pervasive levitation field. Quentin swims clumsily but happily through the air, weightless, while Eliot glides along on a current of telekinetic energy.

After a while, a woman wriggles her way up to them. She’s got gorgeous red hair, and the loosely-woven robe she’s wearing makes it very apparent that her face isn’t the only part of her covered in freckles.

“Either of you boys care to try some zero-G sex?” she asks in a lilting accent that, honestly, has Quentin kind of turned on all by itself. He glances at Eliot, who nods for him to go ahead and zooms off to the other end of the pavilion to the floating bar.

It’s going great for a little while: she kisses with just the right amount of teeth, and her long, slim fingers work him all the way hard in no time at all. The problems start when Quentin slides his cock inside her and starts trying to thrust. He can pull her down with his hands on her hips, or she can draw him inside with her heels pressed into his ass — but both movements have the unfortunate side effect of slowly propelling them through the air, and they’re drifting along at a strange angle, unable to really put any force behind their thrusts.

“Fuck,” Quentin gasps. She feels fucking amazing, but all he can really do like this is kind of grind into her. He slips a hand between their bodies, thumbs at her clit to hopefully keep her interested for long enough to figure this out. “Uh— god, maybe if we— hm.”

His back hits something that feels solid, suddenly, and he peers over his shoulder and sees — nothing. There’s nothing there, but there’s _something_ , obviously, it’s warm and kind of tingly, and— weirdly familiar?

“Don’t mind me,” a voice says from above him, as Eliot glides by, drink in hand. “Just thought you might like a bit of an anchor.”

The woman (Aisling, she’d said her name was, right before she wound her legs firmly around Quentin’s waist) lets out a deep laugh. “Much better,” she says, and rolls her hips. With Quentin’s back pressed to the invisible wall of Eliot’s telekinesis, she can rock forward with some actual oomph, and Quentin moans as she takes him all the way in.

Eliot stays nearby, tweaking the shape of his spell as needed. Everywhere his magic touches Quentin, it feels like — Quentin can’t describe it any other way, it feels like Eliot is _there_. Not like he’s physically touching Quentin, exactly, but something about the feel of the spell is unmistakably his. Quentin’s seen Eliot’s telekinesis at work dozens of times, but he’s never had it right up against his skin like this, never pushed back into it while his heart pounds and his whole body tenses, his senses on fire. Maybe that’s why, before this, he’s never noticed the gentle undertone of _Eliot_ that every speck of energy carries.

With the telekinetic assist, zero-G sex is incredibly fucking fun. Quentin comes first, which he’s kind of embarrassed about, but then Aisling climbs his body (with the help of some invisible handholds, courtesy of Eliot) and straddles his face so he can finish what he started. He doesn’t even realize until afterwards that he probably looked seriously ridiculous hanging suspended in midair, his soft, spent dick just chilling out there.

He jokes about that as Eliot helps him down out of the levitation field like a footman helping a duchess out of her carriage, but Eliot shakes his head. “You didn’t look ridiculous,” he says. “You looked like you’d had an excellent time. People were enjoying the view.”

“Sure,” Quentin says, loose with endorphins and still strangely tingly from being pressed up against Eliot’s magic. “My _cute little nerd cock_ is definitely something people want to look at.”

“It is,” Eliot insists. “Have the past few days taught you nothing? Plenty of people want to get on your dick. Or in your mouth, or your hands, or, presumably, in your ass, if that’s something you’d like to explore. Stop selling yourself short,” he continues before Quentin can really process _that_ comment. “I won’t stand for anyone insulting my boyfriend, least of all the man himself.”

Quentin snorts and rolls his eyes, but Eliot slings an arm around his shoulders and draws him close, so he doesn’t object.

Their third stop of the day is a tent dyed a deep, dark purple. When they step in, only a tiny amount of daylight filters through the heavy cloth, leaving the entryway shadowy and dim.

“The theme here is anonymity and sensory deprivation,” Eliot tells Quentin in a hushed voice as they wait outside a second set of tent flaps, these ones pitch black. “There’s a spell inside that creates true darkness, and nobody makes noises above a whisper. You won’t know who you’re touching, and they won’t know who you are either. You can still refuse anything that someone offers, or even go in and do nothing at all, just enjoy the quiet.”

“The quiet except for the people fucking,” Quentin clarifies. He feels jittery all of a sudden. The idea of not knowing who’s around him, who might be touching him — it’s both hot and terrifying. And then there’s the added layer that he and Eliot won’t be able to see each other. What if they get separated? What if they get separated, and then get— _un_ separated, but don’t realize it’s them? Eliot’s fine with Quentin touching his dick by accident, but how far does the definition of _accident_ stretch in this scenario?

“Except for the people fucking,” Eliot agrees. “Shall we?” He must be able to see the conflict on Quentin’s face, because he adds, “We can hold hands, if you want, so we don’t lose each other. Or— I can also come back another time myself when you’re busy elsewhere.”

“I want to try,” Quentin says, much more firmly than he feels. “Um. Holding on is probably good?”

Eliot offers his hand with a wordless smile, and they duck into the interior of the tent.

As advertised, it’s absolutely dark and filled with gentle sounds of sex. Eliot tugs on Quentin’s hand, guiding him down onto his knees so they can crawl instead of walk, and hopefully not step on anybody. Quentin’s free hand brushes other bodies a few times — a shoulder, a foot, what feels like the soft inner skin of a forearm — but lets them all go with an apologetic pat for disturbing them. Eventually Eliot finds what seems like an open expanse of soft floor and settles down, his hand warm in Quentin’s grasp.

It feels like an eternity that they sit there, surrounded by darkness and easy, soft moans. Quentin closes his eyes, makes himself breathe through his nerves. And then Eliot’s shifting, still holding Quentin’s hand but turning his body away. Quentin hears a whisper from just off to the side: “Can I touch you?”

“You can,” Eliot whispers back to the voice.

After a moment, the voice whispers, “You feel beautiful.”

“As do you.” Eliot’s tone has gone sultry. “Strong. You have a swimmer’s body.”

“And I know how to use it,” the voice responds, amused.

Quentin hears them kissing and feels lost, awkward. It seems like the polite thing to do would be to move away, give Eliot his privacy, let him use both of his hands for whatever he’s about to do — but Quentin’s not sure privacy as a concept really applies in here, where he can’t see anything but can hear everything, where Eliot promised to hold his hand to keep him close.

Eliot, of course, solves his dilemma for him. “My boyfriend and I don’t want to get separated,” he whispers to the unseen person. “Do you mind if he’s with me?”

“Not at all.” Fingertips brush Quentin’s upper arm, rest carefully on his shoulder. “You can join, if you’d like.”

Quentin would like. Quentin would definitely like — if there weren’t a pretty significant chance he’d end up touching Eliot way more than Eliot wants him to. “I’m good,” he whispers back. “El, maybe if you, uh— I can just—”

“If I lie down and put my head on your leg, is that okay?” Eliot asks.

“Yeah,” Quentin breathes, a little stunned. “Yeah, uh. That’s fine.”

And, well. He definitely won’t lose track of Eliot this way.

Shifting, rustling, and then he’s got silky curls under his fingers, Eliot’s head settling warm onto one of his thighs. The mysterious person settles down as well — their hair is buzzed, a uniform layer of prickly little hairs that feel really nice when Quentin drags his palm over their scalp.

“That’s nice,” the person whispers. “You can keep it up.”

Quentin manages not to snort at the double entendre, because, uh, yeah. He definitely can. He’s been too nervous up until now to really get hard, but now that he knows Eliot’s going to stay with him — now that he knows that Eliot is about to _have sex with someone with his head resting in Quentin’s lap_ — his body is responding to the muffled cries and satisfied panting he can hear all around, like someone’s isolated the hottest layer of sound from a porno and dropped Quentin right in the middle of it.

It’s impossible to tell exactly what’s going on, although Quentin can feel their heads move against his leg when they kiss, knows the person is kissing their way further down Eliot’s body when they duck out of reach and Eliot makes a pleased humming noise. He knows when Eliot’s shirt comes off because it lands in his lap. He tucks it under his other leg for safekeeping. He thinks he knows when the person gets their hand on Eliot’s dick — he’s starting to recognize that little gasp, the sound of skin on skin. He senses a tingle of magic in the air, and the skin-on-skin noise changes to a slippery-wet noise, so some lube is happening.

“God you’re big,” the person whispers approvingly. Quentin feels an entirely unearned zip of pride — hell _yeah_ he is, that’s _Quentin’s_ fake boyfriend with the impressively big dick. “You want to fuck me?”

“I’d love to,” Eliot says, and Quentin’s cock twitches further into hardness. The mystery person turns, and Eliot curls into them, kisses the back of their neck. More magic, a few whispered words. They moan softly, their breath hot against Quentin’s leg, and there’s a slick noise.

Quentin’s breathing hard, his dick pushing insistently against the zipper of his shorts, inches away from Eliot’s head. Maybe he won’t mind— Quentin slowly unzips, the noise unmistakeable, plenty of opportunity for Eliot and his anonymous partner to object. But they don’t. They’re shifting gently together, little huffs and soft laughter as they figure out their position without being able to see each other. Quentin presses a hand over his cock through his underwear, shudders.

Eliot’s head shifts position on his lap. “Have fun, Q,” he whispers, his smile obvious in his voice. “Just try not to come on my face, yeah?”

Before Quentin can scrape together an answer to that, the other person chokes back a moan. “Fuck,” they whisper. “That feels so good.” 

“So good,” Eliot echoes, panting a little. “You’re fucking tight, god.”

Quentin’s cock jumps under his palm. Eliot’s _inside_ this person, easing into them, probably, based on the way his shoulders are slowly shifting. That big fucking cock— Quentin’s not, like, _super_ experienced in this area, but there’s definitely usually more preamble involved with ass-fucking, especially with someone Eliot’s size. Maybe that happened when his brain was busy melting down over the prospect of coming on Eliot’s fucking _face_. It’s not important. The person sounds like they’re having fun — that’s an understatement, they sound like they’re _loving_ it.

Eliot gasps, presses his face into the meat of Quentin’s thigh. “Fuck,” he breathes. “That good?”

“Yeah,” the voice returns, equally breathy. “Yeah, fuck, go ahead, fuck me.”

Gentle motion — repetitive motion — getting harder, faster. Quentin bites his lip to keep from groaning and pulls his cock out of his boxers. The person Eliot’s fucking is basically whimpering, a sharp contrast from their low, sultry whispers earlier. What must it feel like, having Eliot’s huge fucking dick inside you? Is he shoving himself deep, bottoming out? This person — a swimmer’s body, Eliot said, so broad shoulders, toned abs, powerful thighs — Quentin closes his eyes (nonsensical, since the room is entirely dark anyway, but it still helps him imagine) and pictures Eliot’s hand spanning nearly half their waist, pulling their muscular ass back onto his cock — one of their strong arms holding their top leg up, maybe, to give him better access—

And it’s too easy, it’s _too_ fucking easy, with nothing but sound and vague impressions, to imagine himself lying there instead. Stretching himself open, making involuntary noises as Eliot rocks into him, fills him the fuck up. Shuddering as Eliot kisses the back of his neck, reaches around and strokes those long fingers over his stomach, down to his cock. (Quentin jerks himself roughly, gasping, petting the person’s head.) Make those soft grunts as Quentin’s ass squeezes around him — he’s gotta be tight, right, if nothing’s ever been in there before except for fingers a few times, maybe the tightness would make up for his lack of experience, maybe Eliot would like that.

There are still moans and gasps and the slap of flesh on flesh happening elsewhere in the tent, but Quentin’s awareness has focused down to just the two people here with him. The total darkness magnifies every intake of breath, every change in pressure against his leg as their bodies move together. He didn’t even mean to, but he’s pretty sure he’s synced up the rhythm of his hand on his cock with the rhythm of their fucking. If he were the one getting fucked — he shouldn’t be thinking about this, but how can he _not_ , with Eliot panting against his leg — that’s what he’d try to do, stroke himself every time that fat cock split him open. Or maybe he’d be too overwhelmed with it, too _full_ and dizzy with the fullness, and Eliot would have to do it — his hand would probably wrap all the way around Quentin’s dick, pull him closer to the edge every time he fucked into him—

“Oh my fuck,” Quentin chokes, a little too loud but all his energy is focused on pointing his cock away from the heads resting on his thigh as he comes hard. He thinks most of it landed on his other leg, or off to the side of him. The anonymous person makes a pleased noise, interrupting the steady stream of _unh-unh-unh_ that’s been pouring out of them as they get thoroughly fucked. Then they moan, once, then again louder, loud enough they have to bite it back. Their body jolts and tenses then relaxes, and they sigh deeply.

“Oh,” Eliot says in a strangled whisper. Instinctively, Quentin moves his free hand from the person’s buzzed head over to Eliot’s, stroking his fingers through his curls, smoothing back one that’s falling over his forehead. “Oh— fuck—” and he’s shaking, gasping, laughing a little bit, his face pressed against the meat of Quentin’s thigh.

Quentin keeps petting his hair, wishing he could lean down, kiss him, swallow up those last shuddering gasps. He’s very glad it’s pitch black in the tent. His face, if Eliot could see it right now, would be the biggest dead giveaway possible.

Eliot and his anonymous partner kiss for a little while. Then the person sits up, offers Quentin a kiss (he accepts; it’s nice), and disappears off into the darkness.

“You want to stay, find someone for you?” Eliot whispers to Quentin. “Or are you done?”

“I think I’m done,” Quentin whispers back. The hushed darkness of the tent has started to press in on him again, his nervousness returning. “As long as you want to go?”

Eliot chuckles softly. “I might come back later, but I’m definitely satisfied for now.”

Quentin doesn’t trust his voice not to squeak if he tries to respond to that verbally, but Eliot won’t be able to see him nodding. So he pets Eliot’s hair one more time, then slides his hand down, down, over sweat-damp skin and elegant bone structure until he can curl their fingers together again, and Eliot can sit up without them losing each other. 

He kind of wishes he wasn’t so weirded out by the total darkness, because it’s a really convenient excuse to keep his hands on Eliot at all times, feel his reassuring squeeze as they crawl towards the barely-visible purple glow that marks the exit. But maybe the next thing they do will be even better. They’ve been circling around each other, gradually getting closer and closer, all day long. 

Maybe whatever their next stop is — maybe it’ll be close enough to what Quentin _actually_ wants that he'll be satisfied, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch 7 Acknowledgements: The anonymity/sensory deprivation tent in this chapter was very directly inspired by [ceeainthereforthat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceeainthereforthat/pseuds/ceeainthereforthat)'s absolutely incredible fic [Eliot Waugh's Full Moon Cuddle Party](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19123564), and credit goes to [RedBlazer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedBlazer/pseuds/RedBlazer) for suggesting I incorporate the concept into this fic. :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Worried, baby?” Eliot steps up beside him, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “You can start small.” He taps the end of Quentin’s nose with one finger. “The paint won’t make you do anything you wouldn’t otherwise want to do, it’ll just make you feel good and get your inhibitions out of the way for a while. There’s showers over there to wash off whenever you’re done.”
> 
> Two things are catching Quentin’s attention: Eliot’s got deep pink streaks of paint down his chest already, and Eliot is very naked. And very right next to him. “Starting small sounds good,” says Quentin. He, as a person, is like — 80% inhibitions, mostly. And his inhibitions are the only things keeping him from doing something exceptionally stupid right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have now been updated, since I was behind on that!
> 
> Expanding on the Mild Biphobia tag: for the next few chapters, Eliot is going to be very dense about Quentin's attraction to men in a way that will absolutely come across as biphobic. If you asked him, he'd sincerely believe he had Other Reasons, but... yeah. Be aware if that's something you're sensitive to.

They emerge from the sensory deprivation tent squinting and blinking into the bright afternoon sun. Eliot teaches Quentin a really handy little sunglasses spell and leads him to a sushi restaurant in the Green zone where, instead of a normal buffet or like, those little boats or whatever, all the food available is laid out on the naked bodies of a dozen very very attractive people reclining on cushioned tables. If Quentin were by himself, he’d turn right the fuck around and find somewhere else, anywhere else, to eat — but with Eliot’s hand on his shoulder, Eliot’s voice raving about the seaweed salad and the rainbow roll, he manages to fill his plate and sit at a low table without completely humiliating himself.

“Are these, uh— are these people who work for the festival?” he asks, wrangling his chopsticks until he can successfully pick up a piece of nigiri. “The um. The—”

“The living sushi platters?” Eliot prompts, like _that’s_ a thing. “Some are. Some are festival-goers who sign up for a shift because they enjoy being of service. I hear it’s really quite relaxing.”

“Uh huh,” Quentin says, imagining lying on a table with his dick out and a line of people waiting to grab a California roll off his chest. “Not for me, I don’t think.”

“No? You don’t want to get all prettied up and covered in delicious food? I bet you’d have women lining up all the way to the Red zone. The chefs wouldn’t be able to keep you stocked.” Eliot pops a piece of sashimi in his mouth and smirks cheerfully at Quentin.

Quentin smiles back not quite as cheerfully. He feels like there’s been more than enough evidence, the past few days, that it’s not just women who find him attractive — and that the feeling is mutual — so why the fuck does Eliot keep harping on it? “Can you show me that sunglasses spell again?” he asks, instead of getting into it. “I think the effect is fading.”

“Yeah, it’s fairly short-lived,” Eliot says. “One of several reasons why actual sunglasses are preferable.” But he shows Quentin the tuts again, helping him refine his hand position, and lets Quentin draw him into a conversation about phosphoromancy and why manipulating something as intangible as light counts as a physical discipline. Quentin can’t help grinning every time Eliot claims that he doesn’t understand any of this theory bullshit, he _never_ goes to class… and then immediately follows that up with an extremely technical and insightful analysis of whatever they were talking about. By the end of lunch, Quentin’s stomach and his nerdy little soul are both thoroughly satisfied.

They retreat to the villa for post-lunch showers and naps and find Margo there as well, curled up on the couch and almost entirely hidden by the huge comforter from her bed. Eliot pets her hair gently, and she cracks one eye open. “Everything all right, Bambi?”

“All good,” she says, wriggling and stretching. The comforter falls away a bit, and Quentin swallows hard when it becomes clear she’s not wearing — a top, at least. Maybe anything? “My guests had some more energy to work out after I was already done, so I let them have my room. I’m guessing they’ll be out here soon.”

“Wake me up before they go,” Eliot says. “I have to meet these people who actually managed to tire you out.”

“It’s fucking impressive, right?” She stretches. Quentin considers bolting for the bedroom. “Usually I’m good for four or five orgasms before I have to crash for a while, but these gals… woof. You’d like them.” Her no longer sleepy eyes flash to Quentin. “You _definitely_ would, Q.”

“Uh,” Quentin says, forcing himself not to physically take a step back. “Maybe.” And like— _probably_. But the thought of someone who can out-fuck _Margo_ is as terrifying as it is hot, and he’s sure these mysterious gals wouldn’t be all that impressed with whatever he brings to the table.

Fortunately or unfortunately, it turns out he’ll have a chance to find out — because when he wakes after his nap, Margo’s gals are still in the villa. All four of them. Hanging out in the living room with Eliot and Margo, eating mini cupcakes from a room service tray, and _not wearing any clothes at all_.

“Uh,” Quentin croaks. He’s not quite as in control of himself when half-asleep, so he does actually take a step back towards the safety of the bedroom.

“Don’t worry, cutie,” one of the women (tall, dark-haired) says in a broad Australian accent. “We only bite when requested.”

“Join us, baby,” Eliot says easily, shifting his long legs and patting a spot on the couch next to him. He, at least, is wearing shorts.

And, well— these people aren’t in on their little scam, so it makes sense that Eliot would be acting, wouldn’t it? Quentin sits down, a little surprised at how much his churning stomach calms down as soon as he’s tucked against Eliot’s side. He rests his head on Eliot’s shoulder — _acting_ , just acting — and turns his face against his warm skin, sighing out the last of his sleepiness.

“We were just discussing what we might do the rest of the afternoon,” Eliot informs him. “Catrina is pushing for the inflatable trampoline, but the rest of us are pretty set on the paint pit. Thoughts?”

“Am I supposed to know what those things are?”

“The inflatable trampoline’s anchored out off the northern Green beach,” a woman with spiky blue hair — presumably Catrina — says excitedly. “It’s the perfect combo of opportunities for swimming and opportunities for sex, and it’s really fun to fuck when the whole floor is bouncing under you.”

“The paint pit is part collaborative art exhibit, part orgy. Take all those pearl-clutching rumors about rainbow parties, make them a real thing, and add magic aphrodisiacs,” says the smallest of the women.

Quentin would like to think he’s come a long way these past few days, like, _emotionally_ , particularly in his ability to think about sexual things without having a crisis — but it’s still kinda overwhelming to be talking about what kind of orgy he’d like to attend next with several super hot women who are sitting casually naked, unselfconscious, legs splayed, answering all potential questions about carpets and drapes and the matching thereof right up front. He’s blushing, and his dick is starting to take notice of the situation. But he manages to speak, which is progress. “We did do a levitation thing this morning, so the trampoline sounds kinda similar? I think my vote would be paint.”

“Sorry, cutie,” Margo says to Catrina, who doesn’t look particularly disappointed. “You’re outvoted. Ugh, we have to put on clothes for the walk over, don't we?”

“Are we all…?” Quentin asks Eliot, as Margo and the others start to get up. “I mean.”

“You can stay here or come along,” Eliot says. “I’m going to go so I can get some Bambi time, but if you need to recharge more that’s fine.” He stands, stopping to stretch directly in front of Quentin. The motion puts Quentin roughly eye-level with his crotch, which— Jesus, he’s _so_ fucking tall, and Quentin is suddenly _very_ aware that this is more or less exactly the view he’d have if he were sucking Eliot’s dick. 

And then Eliot runs a finger along Quentin’s cheek, down to his chin, and tips his face up. “But you’d look very pretty covered in different colors, all painted up for me.”

Quentin is in so much fucking trouble.

On the way over he learns that Catrina (aforementioned blue hair), Eleanor (tall and dark-haired), Sam (tall and blonde), and Lauren (short and blonde) are grad students at Esquith, the Australian equivalent of Brakebills. He also learns a whole lot about Margo as the group recounts their morning escapades. He holds tight to Eliot’s arm to keep himself upright and moving forward as the conversation bounces through his brain. It’s not that he’s _surprised_ Margo knows what to do with a strap-on — like, if he’d thought about it for two seconds, he’d probably have guessed that was the case — but hadn’t ever anticipated hearing a detailed review of her skills.

And as if that wasn’t distressing enough, right as they’re veering off the main drag, approaching a large and very colorful pavilion, Eliot chimes in, “I don’t think Bambi even packed the best of her collection. She’s got this purple and blue dick that’s just, _mm_.” He kisses the tips of his fingers. “Hits the spot.”

“I love it too much to take it anywhere,” Margo says. “It stays in its box at home unless it’s in someone. And it only goes in my favorites.” She smacks Eliot’s ass.

Jesus _fucking_ Christ. Quentin doesn’t remember walking the last hundred yards to the paint pit. He’s too busy trying to convince his dick to calm the fuck down about _that_ new piece of information.

The next thing he knows, everyone is stripping naked, hanging their clothes on hooks around the edge of the pavilion, and a cheerful festival staffer is approaching with a tray full of cups of brightly-colored paint.

“It’s all fully body-safe and non-toxic,” they tell Quentin as his hand hovers over a cup of blue, then one of lavender. “All the colors taste like strawberry. It washes off with water, and the aphrodisiac effect ends when your skin is free of paint.”

“Thanks,” Quentin says, finally choosing a cup that’s kind of a dark teal. The staffer moves on, and Quentin tries to call out the question he just thought of: “How, uh, strong? Is the effect…?”

“Worried, baby?” Eliot steps up beside him, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “You can start small.” He taps the end of Quentin’s nose with one finger. “It won’t make you do anything you wouldn’t otherwise want to do, it’ll just make you feel good and get your inhibitions out of the way for a while. There’s showers over there to wash off whenever you’re done.”

Two things are catching Quentin’s attention: Eliot’s got deep pink streaks of paint down his chest already, and Eliot is very naked. And very right next to him. “Starting small sounds good,” says Quentin. He, as a person, is like — 80% inhibitions, mostly. And his inhibitions are the only things keeping him from doing something exceptionally stupid right now.

Fortunately, Eliot steps back to take his hand. “Go for it, then,” he says, nodding at Quentin’s paint.

Quentin dips two fingers into the cup. It’s surprisingly warm, and there’s a palpable undercurrent of magical energy swirled through it. He swipes his fingers across his chest, smearing himself with teal, and— _oh_ —

“Holy shit,” he breathes, as his skin under the paint _sings_. His chest blossoms with a kaleidoscope of sensation, a tingling sensitivity, but also reminding him of things he wouldn’t normally associate with the sense of touch: notes sung in harmony, honey and cinnamon, the soaring triumph of friends laughing at a joke you made. He dips his fingers back into the cup and draws them down his cheek, bursting into delighted laughter as sensation floods through his mind.

“Right?” Eliot says, and then he’s pulling on Quentin’s hand, drawing him forward into the pavilion.

Everyone around them is streaked with color. The floor swims with rivulets of paint in every shade — thanks to the magic, the colors don’t mix, just swirl around each other in a dizzying rainbow. Quentin stumbles to a stop, his eyes wide, when Eliot stops and turns to him.

“You okay?” he asks Quentin. He’s standing so close Quentin can smell the strawberry scent of the paint on his chest.

“Yeah,” Quentin says. He’s staring at the color on Eliot’s skin, the contrast between pale and deep pinks. “Do you— can I—” he asks, already pouring teal paint into his hand.

“Yeah, do it,” Eliot says, then throws back his head and laughs breathlessly when Quentin presses his palm flat against his chest, slides it up and over his shoulder, leaving teal in his wake. “That’s so good. Can I do you?”

Quentin nods, frantic. God, he’s so— he’s so _happy_ , he’s happy and everything feels so fucking _good_. Fuck inhibitions. Who needs them, anyway?

Eliot sets his paint-coated hands on Quentin’s waist and runs them around and up, over Quentin’s back, his shoulder blades. Quentin tries to lean back into the touch and forward into Eliot all at the same time, ends up just kind of swaying in place, moaning desperately — not even because he’s hard (although he’s getting there), but because Eliot’s hands feel so _fucking amazing_ just moving across his bare skin.

Eliot takes his hands off Quentin’s back, but he doesn’t step away. He cups Quentin’s cheek in one paint-covered hand, and Quentin gasps at the electric tingle the touch sends all through his body. “Told you you’d be pretty like this,” he says, quiet, just for Quentin to hear.

“Am I?” Quentin asks. “I can’t see myself.”

“You are,” Eliot confirms. He’s leaning closer — Quentin’s heart is racing, his limbs are full of lightning and molten sweetness. “You’re so pretty, in fact, that I’d really like to kiss you.”

Quentin licks his lips, tastes strawberry. “So do it,” he whispers.

The moment Eliot’s lips touch his, Quentin is flying, his soul leaving his body and rocketing up towards the stars. He moans into Eliot’s mouth and clings to his shoulders, and Eliot clings back, licks into Quentin’s mouth, sucks on his bottom lip. Quentin nearly sobs. This— _this_ is what he wants, this is what he’s fucking wanted this _whole time_. This is what he’s wanted for, for _months_ , for what feels like his entire goddamn life, or at least this new life he started since he found out magic is real: Eliot’s mouth on his, their tongues tangling, the press of his chest against Quentin’s, firm and warm and _real_. 

Quentin crowds closer into Eliot’s space, the magic singing through his veins encouraging him to go for what he wants, climb Eliot like a motherfucking _tree_ and never let him go. He winds his arms around Eliot’s waist and tugs, drawing their bodies together — his now-hard cock jars against Eliot’s thigh for a second and then rubs right where he wants it, against _Eliot’s_ cock, thick and hard between his legs. Quentin’s vision whites out a little, it feels so good — he gasps, feels Eliot gasp, feels Eliot rock against him, dragging their erections together—

—and Eliot breaks the kiss, stumbles back. He’s panting, his face and chest smeared with teal and pink. “Q,” he gasps. “You— we—”

“Eliot,” Quentin says. He stumbles, his head reeling with how badly he wants to close the space between them again.

“You’re overwhelmed,” Eliot says, his face creasing with concern. “This is a lot, you should— you could wash off—”

“No, I’m fine, I feel, I feel so _fucking_ good,” Quentin says. He looks down: his cup of paint is sitting on its side by his feet, still mostly full. He picks it up, dumps the rest of the paint over his head. His eyes flutter shut as it courses down his face, over his skin, making him shiver with ecstasy. “See,” he says, eyes still closed, “I’m good, I love it— _please_ , El.”

He opens his eyes. Eliot is staring at him, chest heaving. “Quentin.” He takes a strange half-step back, his hands closing into fists at his sides. “We, you— we said—”

And then his eyes catch on something over Quentin’s shoulder, and he yells, “Bambi!” and lunges, catching ahold of Margo’s green-streaked arm as she dances by, Lauren hot on her heels. Margo redirects, collides a little with Lauren, giggles wildly as she catches her balance by grabbing onto Eliot’s waist.

“Boys!” she cheers. “Lovebirds. Dumbasses. You make me sick.”

“Bambi,” Eliot says, winding his arms around her and pulling her close. She presses a kiss to his chest, flicks out her tongue to lick his nipple, which, _fuck_. “Hey, baby,” Eliot purrs. “Swapsies? Lauren can have Q for a bit, you come play with me?” He leans down and kisses her hard. Margo makes a pleased noise and fists her hand in Eliot’s hair, leaving streaks of light green in his dark curls. Quentin watches them, mouth open, heart pounding. 

Margo draws back after a moment, looks Eliot up and down. “You know I love taking you for a spin—” She smears green paint down Eliot’s stomach, and _Jesus motherfucking Christ_ wraps her hand around his cock, strokes it a couple times. Eliot’s lips part in a pleased gasp— “but you two are still way too skin-colored to need me in the mix yet.” Her eyes flick over to Quentin. “ _You_ look ready to go. Come on, idiots. I know you know the drill. Boy meets boy, boy fucks boy, what’s the fucking hold up?”

“But I miss my Bambi,” Eliot pouts, and then bats her hand away from his cock. “Plus I need more colors. Can you help me find some?”

Margo’s face softens. “Sure, baby,” she says, soothing. “Let’s get you all the colors we can find.” She turns to Lauren, who has been rubbing her fingers in meditative little circles through the orange paint coating her own stomach. “Can you show baby Q here how the paint pit works? I want him looking like a Jackson Pollock painting before he’s done.”

“With pleasure,” Lauren says, turning to Quentin and smiling.

She’s cute — she’s very cute, but that’s not— “Eliot,” Quentin says, trying to pull the right words together. _I want to fuck_ you _, not anyone else_.

“Boundaries, Q,” Eliot says. His eyes are wide, roaming over Quentin’s body. “Fucking— boundaries.” And he turns with a strange noise, nearly a growl, and skips away, pulling Margo with him.

Quentin stares after him, then looks at Lauren, standing there very cute and very naked and covered in orange, green, and yellow paint. She steps closer. “You all right?” she asks.

The magic is still singing over Quentin’s skin, soaring through his lungs and twisting into his nerves, and he— he knows he was upset. He was upset just a second ago, he felt— but he only feels good, now. He feels so damn good, and there’s an attractive, naked woman stepping up to him, caressing his shoulder and adding a patch of bright orange to the colors coating his body.

“I’m good,” he says. He steps closer. “I want to kiss you.”

She smiles and leans in and he does, tasting the strawberry flavor of the yellow paint smeared across her lips. Then she takes him by the hand and leads him off into the crowd, and a flurry of color.

Quentin’s lips get painted purple, then blue, then yellow. Patches of crimson and brown and lavender smear over his sides, the curve of his ass. His dick ends up green, briefly, from someone’s mouth, then light blue from grinding against someone’s clit until they come. His heartbeat sounds like the hallelujah chorus in his ears, his moans taste like cotton candy. He comes once in the broad hand of a guy covered head to toe in red paint, then again a little while later, buried inside a woman streaked with deep green and neon yellow.

When his legs are shaking and he’s desperately thirsty, he stumbles towards the showers at the far side of the pavilion. Before he steps under the spray, another smiling staff member offers to take his picture, in case he wants it as a souvenir. He laughs until he nearly cries at that, thinking of the stupid mid-ride pictures on roller coasters, the prospect of buying a fucking _keychain_ or _commemorative mug_ with his own exhausted, naked, paint-soaked body on it. But he tells the staff member sure, go ahead, and strikes a pose, facing the showers and looking back over his shoulder in what he hopes is a seductive way.

As the paint washes off his skin, the onslaught of pleasure fades, leaving him generally tingly and happy but more or less back in his right mind. His inhibitions — those pesky fuckers — come slithering back, nipping at the edges of his contentment. He lets the water pounding on his scalp beat them into submission as he tries to review the previous… some amount of time with a little bit of objectivity.

He is _extremely_ lucky that Eliot is understanding. And that Eliot’s done so many drugs, magical and otherwise, that he can mostly keep his wits about him while extremely stoned on magic sex paint. They had agreed on a set of boundaries, and Quentin had been about five seconds away from throwing those boundaries entirely out the damn window just so he could get his grubby little fingers on Eliot’s magnificent dick. That— isn’t okay. That isn’t how Quentin wants to treat his friends.

But then on the other hand — Eliot kissed him like he fucking _meant_ it. Quentin knows. Quentin’s kissed, like, a _lot_ of people, these past few days, and he’s starting to identify the difference between a kiss that’s just for fun, a kiss with some interest behind it, and a kiss from someone who extremely wants to get on your dick. And he’s kissed _Eliot_ enough, at this point, to know that wasn’t a friendly kiss, or an acting kiss. That was.

That was _something else_.

And Eliot had said it himself, about the paint: _It won’t make you do anything you otherwise wouldn’t want to do_. 

So if that was true, then maybe Eliot _wanted_ to kiss him like that? Actually? And just, felt like he couldn’t for some reason?

It’s… not the dumbest theory Quentin’s ever had, although that bar is low. 

And okay, if he lays it out, all the facts, it maybe looks even less dumb? Because consider: Eliot invited him here. Clearly at Margo’s urging, but Margo never does anything without a reason. Her own terrifying reasons, but— okay, focus. Eliot invited him. Eliot has been touching him, kissing him, even though it seems like literally nobody cares if they’re a legit couple or not. Eliot seems to have some weird mental block around the fact that Quentin isn’t straight, which — would be a valid reason for him to hold himself back, if he really doesn’t believe Quentin could be into him? And when they were talking boundaries, Eliot just kind of went in with the _assumption_ that Quentin didn’t want to have sex with him. Eliot never actually _asked_ — he’d been working his way through a sequential list of possibilities, but he’d stopped at incidental dick-touching, which he clearly thought was as far as Quentin would want to go. And Quentin wasn’t going to bring it up himself, obviously, so—

“Quentin!” Margo yells from like, a foot away. Quentin staggers, nearly slips on the wet pavement. “Jesus, I’ve called your name four times. You get paint in your ears?”

“No, uh,” Quentin says. “Sorry. Little zoned out.”

“We’re heading out to fuel up before dancing tonight,” she says. “You coming? For the fueling at least, not the dancing. I promised El I wouldn’t force you.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says slowly, reaching for the towel the very nice attendant is holding out to him. “Um. You know I might — I think I’ll come dancing, actually. Probably. Yeah,” he finishes, trying to sound confident in this new, batshit insane idea he’s developing.

Margo’s lips curl into a grin that makes Quentin’s lizard brain quake with fear. “Oh, _this_ is going to be _fun_ ,” she says. “You have to let me pick your outfit. I don’t know if what I packed for you for tonight is going to cut it. Come on.” She grabs his wrist, drags him over to retrieve his swimsuit from the hooks. “We’re gonna get some liquor in you, then get you all prettied up. You’re getting fucked good tonight, Coldwater.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8 Acknowledgements: credit for the amazing sushi restaurant idea goes to RedBlazer. :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot pulls Quentin’s wrist up, up, and back so Quentin’s arm is hooked backwards over Eliot’s shoulders, hand gripping the back of Eliot’s neck. He can feel the faint sheen of sweat on Eliot’s skin. “Arch your back a little,” Eliot murmurs. “Yep— yeah, like that. Push your ass back into me.” Quentin barely bites back a needy whine, doing as he’s told. “Perfect. You’re perfect. And you said you couldn’t dance.”
> 
> “I can’t,” Quentin gasps. “This is all you.”
> 
> “It’s not _all_ me,” Eliot says. “I wouldn’t be attracting nearly this much attention by myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Now that I have this whole fic written, it's killing me to sit on it, so we're going to twice-weekly updates, Wednesdays and Fridays (or maybe Saturdays, we'll see). Thank you thank you thank you to my lovely beta [Sylph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akisazame) for enabling my impatience. More acknowledgements in the end notes!
> 
> This is also the point where my goal of keeping my chapter lengths kinda-sorta similar had to go out the window, so buckle up, y'all. These next few chapters are l o n g bois, and they are fucking _filthy_.

Quentin has a very fine line to walk, when they’re pregaming at the villa that evening: get fucked up enough that he can survive an evening of dancing, but not so fucked up he forgets his goal of convincing Eliot to fuck him. Margo and Eliot put him in charge of ordering drinks while they do their makeup, so he gets fancy tequila and some mixers and makes himself a few tequila sunrises, standing up every once in a while to make sure he hasn’t overdone it. He’s just hitting that sweet spot when Margo comes out of his and Eliot’s room and says, “Okay, nerd boy, your turn.”

Quentin sits there with his jaw on the floor for a long moment just staring at her outfit — can you really call something a dress if it’s more cutouts than fabric? does it even matter what it’s called when it makes the person wearing it look so _fucking_ hot? — before he registers what she said and follows her into the bedroom. 

She’s laid out an outfit that he’s very sure he didn’t see in any of his packing cubes. He’s convinced the shorts aren’t even going to fit, but they slide on surprisingly easily, then hug his ass like a second skin. He understands once they’re on why Margo insisted he not wear anything under them, but that doesn’t make him feel _less_ weird about how his cock is pressing directly against the buttons in the front. The tank top is even more out of his comfort zone: extremely form-fitting, mostly sheer but with a wide fishnet pattern. He tugs at it in front of the mirror, trying to figure out if he can position the pattern strategically so his nipples don’t look so weird. “I don’t know, Margo. It’s really— like, is this— I’m not convinced I look hot.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot,” Margo says, grabbing him by the shoulder and turning him so she can attack his face with an eyeliner pencil. “Just trust me.”

“But can I even— like, if I bend over, I feel like these pants are gonna rip.”

“Who you planning on bending over for, Coldwater?” Margo leans forward and stuns him with a kiss on the tip of his nose before he can protest. “Here. Little bit of proof of concept for you. Stand over there.” She positions him so he’s facing the bathroom door. “Watch his face for once, not his dick.”

Quentin has no idea what’s going on until she walks to the far side of the room and calls out in an annoyed tone, “El, where the fuck did you put my highlighter?”

“Right back in your bag where I found it, Bambi,” Eliot’s voice calls from the bathroom.

“ _Where_ in my bag?”

“In the pocket where it always—” Eliot steps through the door, towel around his waist, and spots Quentin.

He doesn’t finish his sentence, or say anything else. He doesn’t have to. His expression does the talking for him. Quentin’s half expecting to hear a cartoon _awoooga!_ sound effect the way his eyes bug out of his head. His cheeks flush under the layer of glitter expertly scattered across them, and his mouth falls open.

“Found it,” Margo sing-songs, waltzing back past Quentin and turning him towards her again so she can brush something golden over his cheekbones. “There we go. Now go sit in the living room and pour mama a few tequila shots, honey. And _don’t_ rub your eyes.”

“What? Oh.” Quentin stumbles as she shoves his shoulder to get him to move. “Yeah, okay.”

He does as instructed, but also pours one for himself. You know, just for good measure.

The club Margo and Eliot have chosen is actually really close to the villa. They take a small branch off the main path that Quentin hasn’t explored yet, crossing into a Green area, then the walkway slants up just a bit — there’s a deep thrum of bass making the leaves on the trees shake — and he can see it when they round the corner: a wide dance floor built into the cliffside, waves crashing against the rocks far below. It’s a dazzle of lights and noise and gyrating bodies, and despite the alcohol coursing through his system already, Quentin feels drastically unprepared.

Eliot must see his anxiety starting to bubble up, because he loops his arm through Quentin’s, leads him along like a Regency gentleman out for a constitutional with his betrothed. Which is a pretty weird metaphor for Quentin to come up with, honestly, given that Regency gentlemen didn’t wear fucking, leather and chain _harnesses_ instead of _shirts_ , or tiny shorts mostly made of lace, but— whatever. “No getting cold feet on me, Q. Give it a chance.”

“It’s not about a _chance_ , really, it’s just like— I literally _cannot_ dance,” Quentin says. “I don’t, my body doesn’t, like — _move_ the way it’s supposed to.”

“You were moving pretty nicely at the paint pit,” Margo says with a smirk. “Just channel some of that.”

“Some of— I was high off my ass and having sex with like three people at once. That’s not, like. _Relevant_ to this.”

“No, Bambi’s right, it’s really quite similar,” Eliot says thoughtfully. “Move with your partner. Pay attention to what they’re enjoying. Follow the rhythm. You’ll be fine.”

“See, you say that like it’s easy,” Quentin says. The more they talk about this, the more his courage is failing him. He can feel sweat prickling the back of his neck, cold in the evening breeze. “Maybe I should, uh. I should just—”

“We’ll take care of you, Q,” Margo says. “Trust us. Come on.”

They’ve reached the edge of the dance floor, and Margo steps up onto it and turns, holding both her hands out to Quentin. “Come on,” she says again, her expectant glare leaving no room for argument. “I didn’t dress you up just to not be able to show you off.”

Quentin sighs, and steels himself, and grabs her hands.

He forgets, usually, how _strong_ Margo is — she’s tiny, but she could probably throw him halfway across the room if she put her mind to it. And that’s practically what she’s doing now. She drags him onto the dance floor — Eliot’s disappeared and Quentin has absolutely no clue where he went — and kicks his feet until his knees unlock. Then she steps in, molding her body against him, and pulls his hands around to her hips.

“I’ll lead,” she says, just loud enough for him to hear over the roar of the music. “Keep your hands on my body, move with me.”

And then they’re dancing — more or less? Quentin’s pretty sure it’s going well. Margo moves like she’s made of liquid, sinuous and perfectly on beat. She’s got one hand on the back of his neck, the other gripping his waist, and between her hands and her hips she nudges him into moving along with her. Quentin wouldn’t be able to replicate it on his own, but he can follow along okay.

His tequila-soaked brain jumps back a few days, to a sultry feminine voice: _Do you like the other person taking charge?_ To how good it had felt, with another hand on the nape of his neck, another body moving against his. He shudders a little, the music pounding through his chest.

“There you go,” Margo murmurs in his ear. “Stay loose like that.” Her breath is hot against the side of his neck. Quentin shudders again, readjusts his sweating palms on her hips. “Get you the right partner to push you around and you’d do just about anything, wouldn’t you?”

Quentin’s heart is racing. “Um,” he gasps, “Margo—” She put him in these shorts, she knows how tight they are — she’ll definitely be able to tell, he has to say _something_ —

“I don’t care if you start getting hard,” she says. “If you care, we can stop and I’ll pass you off to someone else, but it’s no big deal to me.”

“Okay,” he breathes. He’s a little past _starting_ to get hard, with Margo’s smooth thighs pressed against his legs, but knowing she’s not like, eagerly waiting for her chance to laugh at his boner or whatever the fuck his anxiety thought was happening makes him feel better, relax into her grip again. He manages to unclench his jaw, breathe some of the tension out of his shoulders, get back into the rhythm. 

“Good boy,” she croons. “Just to be clear, though, I’m not gonna fuck you. Not tonight, anyway. Mama’s got other plans for her evening, and I know you’re a boy on a mission.”

Taken at face value, it’s a rejection, but it weirdly doesn’t feel like one? It’s actually a relief. If Margo’s plan for the night was to fuck Quentin, Quentin has literally zero doubt that that’s what would happen. If she’s _not_ going for that, he at least has some chance of making his own plans come to fruition. “That’s, uh. That’s okay.”

“Of course it is, baby.” She turns her head, looking over his shoulder into the crowd. “All right, stay on the beat. Gonna hand you off to El in a second. Swallow, don’t spit, our boy deserves the best.”

“Uh,” Quentin says, but that’s all he has time for before there’s a big hand smoothing over his back, sliding down his arm to grasp Margo’s hip over the top of Quentin’s hand. Eliot presses against Quentin from behind, falling seamlessly into the rhythm Margo has set. 

“Look at you two,” he says, just loud enough for both of them to hear. “Breathtaking.” He fucking _grinds against Quentin’s ass_ in time with the music, and Quentin has more or less forgotten how to words. He clings tighter to Margo, tries to stay nice and flexible and not go rigid with nerves.

“Perfect timing,” Margo says. “I just spotted Jayce from last year and I am _absolutely_ hitting that again. You can take over the dancing lessons.”

“Jayce, Jayce… with the tongue piercing?”

“No, with the orgasm multiplier spell.”

“Go,” Eliot says immediately. “Go, run like the wind. Don’t come back to me until your legs have fallen off your body.” He leans down over Quentin’s shoulder and kisses her deeply, and then Margo’s stepping back, winking _really obviously_ at Quentin, and Eliot’s hands are on Quentin’s waist, nestling their hips closer together, helping Quentin move with the rhythm.

“Not bad,” he says in Quentin’s ear, his breath making the hairs on the back of Quentin’s neck stand up. “No, don’t crunch in like that. Stay open. Open up, baby.”

Quentin’s mouth is fucking watering, his dick is well on its way to hard. His entire nervous system is in a wild game of tug-of-war, his anxiety trying to curl him into a little ball, his libido trying to spread him as wide as he’ll go, press as much of his skin as possible against Eliot’s. “Um— I don’t know—” he starts. He’s not entirely sure whether his rapid breathing is horniness or panic. “Margo was kind of, she like— made me do the right thing? Held me there? That helped.”

For just a second Eliot falters, and they lose the beat entirely. The couple dancing next to them bumps into them, the woman’s elbow grazing Quentin’s ribs, and she shoots him an apologetic look. But then Eliot’s grip tightens on Quentin’s waist, and he grabs at Quentin’s wrist. “I can put you where I want you, if that’s what you need from me,” he says, his voice low. 

Quentin’s libido abruptly wins the battle, and he kind of melts back against Eliot, curving their bodies together. He can feel the leather straps of Eliot’s harness pressing into his upper back, the metal buckles cold against his skin. The caress of Eliot’s fingers over the pulse in his wrist makes his whole body jolt.

Eliot pulls Quentin’s wrist up, up, and back so Quentin’s arm is hooked backwards over Eliot’s shoulders, hand gripping the back of Eliot’s neck. He can feel the faint sheen of sweat on Eliot’s skin. “Arch your back a little,” Eliot murmurs. “Yep— yeah, like that. Push your ass back into me.” Quentin barely bites back a needy whine, doing as he’s told. “Perfect. You’re perfect. And you said you couldn’t dance.”

“I can’t,” Quentin gasps. “This is all you.”

“It’s not _all_ me,” Eliot says. “I wouldn’t be attracting nearly this much attention by myself.”

Quentin blinks in confusion, then lets his eyes focus out on the crowd, which until now has just been a writhing mass of colors and bodies. And— Eliot’s not wrong. They’re definitely attracting attention. The couple next to them is openly staring, the woman grinning, the man mouthing along the side of her neck. She’s wearing next to nothing, he’s wearing exactly nothing, and they’re clearly enjoying the show. Near them, someone in latex and glitter is dancing with two partners, but their eyes are focused on Quentin, their gaze sliding down his body with palpable heat. Over by the bar, a guy with unruly black hair and striking deep blue eye makeup is scanning the crowd while he sips his drink; when his eyes meet Quentin’s, he smiles.

“Oh,” Quentin says.

Eliot laughs, presses his cheek against Quentin’s temple. “Oh,” he repeats. “Oh, he says. Like he doesn’t know he’s the hottest fucking thing in this club right now.”

The baseline of the music is drowned out by the pounding of Quentin’s heart. That was— Eliot must not mean that, he— “That seems like an exaggeration.”

“Not at all, baby,” Eliot says. “Margo really did a number on you. Half the people here are probably thinking about taking you back to their villa and peeling you out of those shorts, seeing what you’ve got inside them.”

Quentin’s erection fucking _twitches_ , and a wave of liquid heat thrums through him. “I think they, um,” he says, face on fire, aiming desperately for humor. “They might be able to uh, tell. What I’ve got. At this point.”

Eliot’s hand flexes on his hip. Is that— did his fingers inch _closer_ to Quentin’s dick? _Fuck_. “Huh,” Eliot says, like he’s just now noticing that Quentin’s hard, like he’s fucking _surprised_ , even though he must be able to feel Quentin’s heart beating like a fucking jackhammer. “They just might. Even better.”

The note of _evaluation_ in Eliot’s voice, the fucking— _mildly pleased_ tone he says it with, should _not_ be that goddamn hot, shouldn’t be making Quentin’s breath stutter and his nipples tighten under his fucking mesh tank top. He closes his eyes, trying to block out the rush of color and light and attractive near-naked humanity. But with his eyes closed, his mind focuses on the press of Eliot’s long, lean body against his; the way they move so seamlessly together, how Eliot can put Quentin wherever he wants him with the slightest nudge of his hips; the friction of— Jesus fuck, is _Eliot_ getting hard?

Quentin is nearly delirious with arousal, at this point. He wants to turn around, rub against Eliot until he’s _definitely_ hard, the pink head of his enormous cock popping out of those tiny lace shorts. He wants to fucking drop to his knees and blow him in the middle of this fucking dance floor. He wants— he just _wants_. And he’s so _fucking_ close to getting, it’s like he can taste it.

And then Eliot says, “So, let’s find you someone to play with tonight. What kind of girl are you in the mood for? Are you a tits man or an ass man?”

“Jesus, Eliot,” Quentin says, breaking out of his grasp and whirling to face him. “Do I need to explain the concept of bisexuality to you like you’re five?”

Eliot’s perfectly-lined eyes are wide, startled. “No,” he says haughtily. “I get it.”

“Do you, though?” Quentin swallows, his annoyance starting to ebb away as he looks at Eliot’s weirdly nervous expression. “If I said I want to fuck a guy tonight, what would you say?”

“I…” Eliot looks lost, shifting his weight out of time with the beat of the music. “I mean, obviously, you’re a big boy, you can fuck who you want—”

“I need a drink,” Quentin says, which he thinks is a _very_ generous lifeline to offer Eliot under these circumstances. “You coming?”

Eliot snaps his mouth shut. “Right behind you.”

Miraculously, there’s a seat open at the bar. Just one, though, which, that’s fine, Eliot can just stand and think about what he’s done. Quentin hops up onto the stool and asks the bartender to surprise him. Eliot hovers behind him before finally squeezing himself in to lean sideways against the bar.

“Q,” he says quietly, as Quentin sips from his newly acquired beverage, a martini glass full of alarmingly purple liquid. “Let’s try that again, shall we? If you want to fuck a guy tonight, you should absolutely fuck a guy. I’m used to thinking of you as an innocent little straight boy, and I guess my brain hasn’t quite recalibrated itself, now that I know otherwise.”

“I literally sucked someone’s dick in front of you and got off on it,” Quentin points out. “How much _recalibrating_ do you need?”

“At least a little more. Apparently.”

“Okay, well, I can do it again, if you want. What do you think, two more dicks? Three?” Eliot visibly swallows, and Quentin shuts his stupid snarky mouth and makes himself take a deep breath. “I do want to fuck a guy tonight,” he continues. “Not to like, _prove_ anything, or whatever. I just want to.”

“Of course,” Eliot says. “Can I— help, in any way? That’s a weird question.” He huffs out an annoyed sigh. “I’m trying to be supportive.”

This is it. This is Quentin’s chance. All he has to do is _say_ it. _Yeah, I’d find it very helpful if you’d take me back to the villa and fucking pound me_. Or maybe: _There’s actually a_ specific _guy I’d like to fuck, I think you may know him, could you put in a good word?_ Or dial back the snark, just be straightforward, honest: _I want you. I want you so fucking bad. I’ve wanted you for months, and it’s only getting worse, being here, pretending, feeling like maybe you could want me back, and I’m so fucking desperate_ —

“Let’s fuck someone together,” he says, before his out of control emotions can ruin this for him. “We said, uh, that’s in our boundaries, right? I want to. I _really_ want to.”

Eliot’s staring at him like he’s never seen him before. Then he blinks and seems to recover, although his cheeks are flushed under the glitter. “Right,” he says. “We did talk about that.” He relaxes against the bar, back arching a little. “I’m certainly game. Anyone in here catching your eye?”

“I think we’ve established that I’m, like, the opposite of picky.”

“And we’ve equally established that I’m a big slut, so.” Eliot grins wickedly as Quentin has to very carefully swallow the last sip of his drink so he doesn’t choke. Good to see Eliot back to his normal, not-perplexed-by-queerness self, but still, Jesus. “None of that exactly narrows things down.”

“Are you taking volunteers?” says a voice from Quentin’s other side.

Quentin turns — it’s the guy he made eye contact with earlier, with the deep blue makeup and the messy dark hair. Up close, he’s just as attractive as he was from a distance: defined cheekbones and full lips, colorful tattoos tracing down his neck and over his bare chest.

“We’re taking applications,” Eliot purrs. He slips an arm around Quentin from behind, pulling him close. “You seem like you have the qualifications we’re looking for.”

“And those qualifications are?”

“Cute and willing, mostly. Open to fucking an established couple, interested in getting filled up from both ends.”

“I think I check all the boxes.” The guy finishes off his drink and sets it on the bar. “Do you need my CV, or…?”

“What do you think, Q?” Eliot asks. “I’ve got a good feeling about this one, should we make him do the paperwork or can we skip right to the interview?”

Eliot’s petting over Quentin’s ribs, his fingertips tracing slow circles that are easy to feel through the mesh of Quentin’s top. He severely regrets his decision to involve another person in tonight’s plans, now. But— if there has to be someone else in bed with them, this guy is _definitely_ at the top of Quentin’s list. “As much as I love paperwork,” he says, “I think exceptions can be made for exceptional candidates.”

It’s probably some kind of magic that that, like, _works_ , as a line, and doesn’t send the guy (Matt, he says, once it’s been established that they are in fact going to be fucking) running for the hills away from this weird nerd and his hot boyfriend. But ten minutes later they’re in the villa, sprawled on the huge bed, Eliot peeling Matt’s briefs off as Quentin kisses him. Almost immediately Matt makes a pleased noise into Quentin’s mouth and clutches at Quentin’s shoulders — Quentin can hear soft wet sounds from further down the bed, now, and imagines Eliot’s tongue dragging up the length of Matt’s hardening dick, his lips wrapped around the tip, cheeks hollowing as he sucks it down.

“Fuck,” Matt gasps, the kiss breaking as his head falls back against the pillow. “God, he’s good with his mouth,” he says to Quentin.

Quentin steels himself and looks, because they’re _having a fucking threeway_ , he’s going to have to be able to _look_ at Eliot for that to work, just like, logistically. He doesn’t _immediately_ come in his stupid too-tight shorts, so that’s a good first step. “He is,” he says faintly, watching Eliot’s curls bob up and down. “He’s incredible.”

Eliot looks up, mouth full of cock, eyes huge and dark, and kind of smirks as best he can around the shaft of Matt’s dick. Quentin makes a strangled noise and turns back to Matt, dives in to get his tongue on the column of his neck, scrapes his teeth along the underside of his jaw.

Matt seems to like it when he’s a little rough, so Quentin keeps at it, sucking and nipping until the skin under his mouth is red, then licking to soothe the sting. He works his way down his torso, leaves bite marks over the dark lines of a tattoo across Matt’s pec, gets a little lost in the delightful experience of tonguing at his nipples and hearing him moan. There’s a spot just above his hipbone that’s kind of ticklish, and Quentin mutters a quick “Sorry” against his skin as he moves on from it, licks a trail just past Matt’s navel down through the scatter of dark hair until—

His head, predictably, bumps softly into Eliot’s. Matt makes a needy noise, and Quentin looks back up his body, sees him staring open-mouthed, the pink in his cheeks contrasting with the bright blue painted across his eyelids.

“Hey, baby,” says Eliot, voice pitched low but loud enough that Matt can hear it too. “Fancy meeting you here.”

And so Quentin has to turn and face him: long lashes and regal cheekbones, lips pink from friction and wet with spit. So close — _so_ close, so beautiful, so obviously turned on, and _Quentin_ is so fucking turned on he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with any of his limbs. His heart pounds in his ears so hard he can barely hear whatever Eliot says next, but he can get the meaning in the quirk of his smile, the way he tilts Matt’s cock just a bit towards Quentin’s face:

_Want a taste?_

Quentin sticks his tongue out, drags the flat of it in a long stripe up Matt’s hard shaft, and Eliot’s expression flickers, a faint moan escaping his lips. Quentin does it again — a louder moan, this time, and then Eliot’s leaning back in, ducking down to lick from the base up as Quentin wraps his lips around the tip, works the sensitive ridge of the head with his tongue.

“Mm, _yes_ ,” Matt says from a million miles away. Eliot’s head is rising, coming closer, and Quentin lets Matt’s cock fall away from his lips so he can catch Eliot’s mouth in a desperate kiss.

This is — the first time Quentin’s initiated a kiss, he realizes suddenly, as much as he’s wanted to — like, fifty times a day, these past few days — and it’s wet and deep and _filthy_ , the solid, burning heat of someone else’s cock pressed up against their cheeks. It’s _so close_ to everything Quentin wants, the opportunity to kiss Eliot _and_ suck cock _at the same time_ , it’s like — honestly, he hasn’t even thought of this while jerking off before but he sure as _fuck_ is going to from now on. He knows he’s whining desperately into Eliot’s mouth. He doesn’t fucking _care_ , he’s so fucking turned on he feels like he might spontaneously combust, and any second he spends worrying about what Eliot might be thinking is a second he’s not tasting Eliot’s lips, feeling the rush of his breath against his cheek.

A hand slips into Quentin’s hair and tugs, and Quentin whines even more desperately, but Eliot pulls back — there’s a hand in his hair as well, and he’s looking away from Quentin, up to— oh, right. The guy whose dick they’re supposed to be sucking. How silly of Quentin to forget he was even here.

“I want to see all of you two,” Matt says breathlessly. “Clothes off, yeah?”

Eliot plants a soft kiss on the head of Matt’s cock and sits up, reaching towards Quentin — god, his arms are so _long_ — snagging the hem of his top and starting to pull it up. Quentin raises his arms obediently, shivering when Eliot’s fingers brush up his sides. He has no hope in hell of figuring out Eliot’s fucking harness nonsense, so in return he reaches for the snug waistband of Eliot’s shorts. His desperate fantasy back at the club was right, to a certain extent: he can see the pink head of Eliot’s cock through the black lace, the fabric stretched to what seems like a breaking point trying to contain it, and as soon as Quentin tugs the tiniest bit it springs out. Quentin forces back a giggle as his brain thinks, _sproing!_ , focusing his efforts on pulling Eliot’s shorts down without instinctively grabbing anything he shouldn’t.

Further up the bed, Matt lets out a startled laugh. “Holy _fuck_ you’re huge. _You’d_ better be a normal size,” he says, addressing Quentin, “or we may have to rethink this plan.”

Totally unwarranted rage floods Quentin’s body. How fucking _dare_ this guy— who the actual _fuck_ does he think he is, talking about _Eliot_ like that, like there’s something wrong with having a fucking huge cock— he should count himself fucking _lucky_ to be seeing it— but Eliot just chuckles and shimmies the rest of the way out of his outfit. “He’s the perfect size,” he tells Matt. “Come on, Q, let him see it.” He raises an eyebrow. “Unless you need my help peeling those shorts off?”

Rage transmutes instantly to arousal, making Quentin’s whole body jolt with it. “Uh.” He doesn’t _need_ help — but if Eliot’s offering — when the fuck else will he have a chance at this? “Be my guest, babe,” he says, trying to sound— sultry? Inviting? Anything besides pathetically desperate.

Eliot’s eyes flash as he crawls back onto the bed, and he fucking— instead of coming all the way over, he like— stretches himself out on his belly, goes up on his elbows so his face is level with Quentin’s belly. He pets over Quentin’s thighs, first, fingers skimming dangerously close to the line of Quentin’s erection. Then he looks up at him— pulls at the fly of Quentin’s shorts, firmly enough that the buttons come undone one-two-three down the line— and there’s Quentin’s hard cock, bobbing out right next to Eliot’s face, nearly hitting him in the cheek, _this close_ to his mouth— his lips are slightly parted and Quentin could, it’d be so easy to just, press forward with his hips, feel that velvet skin smooth over his slit and draw away with a thread of precome stretched between their bodies, physical proof of how badly Quentin wants this—

He bites hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from giving Eliot an abrupt and entirely unasked-for facial, scrambles his way out of the shorts. Doesn’t kick Eliot in the face, thank fucking god. And Matt is making an approving noise, moving around to press open-mouthed kisses to Quentin’s thighs, his lower belly.

“That’s more like it,” he says. “I think I can take that and still be able to walk home afterwards.” He lowers his head, licking over Quentin’s tip, then swallows him _all_ the way down.

Quentin makes a completely incoherent noise, overwhelmed by _tight hot wet_ sensation surrounding him, the opening of Matt’s throat spasming and then relaxing to admit the head of his cock. If he were standing, his knees would have immediately buckled. As it is, he still loses his balance badly enough that he manages to nearly fall over while sitting down, all his muscles shocked into uselessness. But there are huge hands grabbing at his wrist, his shoulder — holding him upright — Eliot, swooping in like Superman to catch Quentin in his deepthroating-induced free fall. He shifts to tuck his body in behind Quentin’s on the bed — Jesus _fuck_ his cock is _right there_ , pressing against Quentin’s back what feels like most of the way up the length of his spine — hands on Quentin’s waist, propping up Quentin’s boneless weight.

“How’s that feel, baby?” he asks in a deep purr. 

“Good,” is all Quentin can manage. “So good, _fuck_ , fucking Christ, _oh_ my god—”

“God, he’s got that pretty cock of yours all the way into his throat.” Eliot presses a kiss to the side of Quentin’s neck. “Look at you, you’re shaking. Can’t wait till it’s my turn, and he’s sucking me while you fuck that gorgeous dick deep into him—”

“Stop,” Quentin says, strangled, “both— fuck— stop I’m gonna come fuck _fuck_ —” Matt pulls off of him, grins up at him wickedly, as Quentin’s chest heaves and his spit-wet cock pulses and aches, right on the knife’s edge of a way-too-early orgasm. He gasps for air, tries to imagine un-sexy things, although it’s really fucking difficult to distract himself from the two gorgeous guys surrounding him, one kissing his thigh, one the corner of his jaw.

“I fucking love it when you get this turned on,” Eliot says, which is just — cruel and unnecessary, Quentin _just_ said how close he is, why would he— and how does he even— although now being annoyed at Eliot is actually pulling him back from the edge a little bit, so maybe Eliot’s just, a fucking reverse-psychology sex genius. Probably. That seems likely. “Matt, anything you want before we get going?”

“Nothing at all,” Matt says, although he licks a little at Quentin’s balls, making Quentin gasp. “I’m really fucking impatient to get you both in me.”

Which is how Quentin finds himself kneeling behind Matt, staring down at his fucking perfect ass, tracing his fingers along the intricate geometric tattoos inked over one hip and across his lower back. He grabs his cheeks, spreads them with his thumbs, watches as Matt arches into his touch.

Eliot, further up the bed, hums contentedly and then gasps as Matt lowers his head. Quentin doesn’t have the most detailed view from this angle, can’t actually _see_ Eliot’s huge cock starting to disappear into Matt’s mouth — stretching out those full pink lips — all he has to figure out what’s happening is the steady rocking motion of Matt’s head, the flex of his shoulders, and the breathless pleasure on Eliot’s face — the trace of his long fingers over Matt’s cheek, around the back of his neck, into the tousled ends of his hair — the soft little noises he makes as Matt’s head starts to bob further, faster. _All he has_ is a wildly inappropriate phrase, actually, because it’s really more than enough, this intoxicatingly arousing cornucopia of little details. Quentin’s pretty sure he would just keel over and die if he had all of that _and_ direct line of sight on Eliot’s criminally nice dick.

He spends what feels like a million years, and also no time at all, just like that: watching Eliot get a top-tier blowjob, hands kneading the sweet curve of Matt’s ass. And then Eliot takes a shuddering breath and looks up, meets his eyes. Quentin’s cock nearly jolts itself off his fucking body at the pure lust in Eliot’s expression.

“Matt, baby,” Eliot says — his voice nearly breaks when Matt lifts his head with a wet noise — “do you like magical or mundane prep better?”

“Mm, magical, definitely. Love getting fingered, but only when I’m already ready to go.” Matt arches into Quentin’s grip again, looks back at him over his shoulder and grins. “I took care of Durand's before I went out tonight. Pertrick’s should be all you need.”

Quentin’s grip tightens involuntarily, more from panic than arousal. This— he didn’t think this through. He _really_ didn’t think this through. He doesn’t know any of these spells — he doesn’t even recognize the names, let alone have the slightest clue how to cast them — but if he and Eliot are _dating_ , then he _should_ know them— their whole charade is about to crumble to pieces because Quentin’s an idiot—

“Can you do it, baby?” he blurts out, eyes flashing to Eliot, trying to convey via subtle eyebrow wiggling _what the fuck am I supposed to do here_. To Matt, he says, “El, uh, he— he only tops. So I haven’t, um.” God, his face is on fucking _fire_. “I don’t really do the prep, usually.”

“And when he _does_ open himself up for me, he prefers it the old-fashioned way,” Eliot chimes in. “Takes longer, but trust me, the view is absolutely worth it. Those thick fingers in that cute little ass? Mm.”

What the _actual motherfucking fuck_ is happening. “El,” Quentin tries to say, but it comes out as a breathless squeak.

“You know I can’t cast Pertrick’s for you, babe,” Eliot says. “It bases itself on the caster’s own _physical circumstances_. You’d get lost in there.” It’s not until Matt chuckles knowingly that Quentin figures out what the fuck Eliot means by _physical circumstances_ , and— and he can go _fuck_ himself, Quentin is a _perfectly_ respectable size, this _arrogant motherfucker_ with his goddamn unreasonably large cock— “Here, you can follow along with me, though — I’ll just leave off the last tut so it doesn’t take.”

Quentin takes as deep a breath as the furor of arousal and indignance in his chest will allow. “Right. Go for it.”

It’s not a difficult sequence, at least. There are some words in Ancient Greek (of course) and a few straightforward motions, and then Eliot drops his hands, the fizzle of magic in the air dissipating a little, and says, “Now add a Popper 14 and then put both hands on him,” and Quentin follows directions, feeling the swell and release of energy course through him. Matt makes a brief noise, not uncomfortable, exactly, more like _adjusting_ , and the muscles of his lower back flex. Quentin can actually _see_ his hole twitching, loosening, and when he presses a fingertip to it, fascinated, it slides in with no resistance.

Matt hums happily. “Perfect. Gimme more.”

Quentin takes a shuddering breath and pulls out, presses in with two fingers. He’s done this to himself a lot, but always ends up more focused on the delicious fullness in his ass than the squeeze around his fingers. He’s done it to other people a few times, all of them pre-Brakebills, and on those occasions he’d been terrified of hurting the person, constantly wondering if he should add more lube or use fewer fingers or go slower or just give up entirely and go down on them instead. So this is the first time he’s ever been able to actually _enjoy_ this side of it. He trusts the spell — which he shouldn’t, probably, magic is notoriously full of downsides, but Eliot taught him how to cast it, and obviously he trusts Eliot — so he can savor the heat of Matt’s body, how he gives way to let Quentin in. It’s so _soft_ inside, silky; the pressure, the visceral heat of it, make Quentin’s heart pound in his ears. If it feels this good on his fingers, he has no idea how he’s going to last when he gets his cock in there.

Eliot’s voice draws Quentin out of his intense focus: “How’s he feel, baby?”

“So good,” Quentin breathes. Is that the only response he’s going to manage tonight? He’s gotta figure out how to switch it up. But first he’ll have to get more than one single brain cell functioning, and who knows how that’s gonna happen. He smooths his free hand over the curve of Matt’s ass. “You want more fingers?” he asks him.

“No thanks, dick please,” Matt sing-songs, making Quentin let out a startled laugh. “Add some lube, then get the fuck in me.”

Eliot says, “Catch,” and Quentin looks up to find a bottle of lube floating softly towards him, slow enough that even his sex-addled reflexes can actually grab it. He coats himself with it gingerly — he’s still so damn hard, he shouldn’t risk any unnecessary stimulation — and in the meantime Eliot gasps as Matt fits his mouth over his cock again, his head dipping down — _way_ down, wringing a moan out of the depths of Eliot’s chest. 

Quentin makes himself take a couple slow breaths as he spreads Matt open, shuffles himself into position. The head of his cock nudges against Matt’s hole, then there’s that first press — tight, _so_ tight, until the head is all the way in — then the gradual slide, molten hot slickness and the ring of muscle easing its way over his length. Quentin gets as far in as he thinks is advisable on a first thrust and stops, trying not to pant too loudly.

He looks up, then, and— and meet’s Eliot’s eyes. Because Eliot, rather than looking down at the guy valiantly deepthroating his enormous cock, is staring _directly_ at Quentin, like he wants to commit this to memory, every moment of it, every beat of Quentin’s heart. A broken noise floats out of Quentin’s mouth, the mirror of the one that wrenches its way out of Eliot’s, and for a second Quentin is drowning in the knowledge that they’re really doing this together: having sex in the bed they share, seeing each other in the throes of pleasure, in their most intimate moments. His grip tightens on Matt’s hips, his cock twitching, probably leaking inside him.

Matt makes a noise, muffled by an enormous mouthful of dick, and Eliot cuts his gaze briefly down to him before he looks at Quentin again. “Move, baby,” he says. “He wants you to fuck him.”

God, Quentin is _not_ going to last long. He pulls back, pushes in, a little further than before because Matt’s ass is gripping his dick so _fucking_ nicely, inviting him inside. This spell — magic can’t do everything, but apparently it _can_ make anal sex way more straightforward, and isn’t that enough, really? It’s probably enough. It’s as easy as breathing to settle his hands at the perfect spot on Matt’s hips and find a steady rhythm, cue into the way his back arches to figure out the angle that’s gonna do it for him.

“You are so fucking hot,” Eliot says. “Both of you— ah, _fuck_ , yes, _mm_ that _mouth_.” He lifts his eyes up to meet Quentin’s again. “You gonna really give it to him, babe? Pound that beautiful dick into him until he comes on it?”

Quentin hisses through his teeth as Matt’s body tightens around him, responding to Eliot’s words, but he doesn’t stop moving. “El, I swear, if you make me come too fast—”

Eliot laughs. “You’re always so worried about that, and it’s literally never an issue. You know how hot it makes me when you can’t hold back.” Quentin hopes his face is clearly communicating the sentiment _what the fuck?_ , and not just desperate horniness. “Besides, I don’t think any of us are lasting long tonight. _Oh_ ,” he chokes, as Matt’s head moves faster over his cock. “I’m— _shit_ — I’m certainly not. And your cock’s going to feel so good in him when it’s all desperate and hard, right on the edge.”

Where the _goddamn fuck_ is Eliot _getting_ this and _why is he forcing Quentin to listen to it_ , when Quentin already _said_ he’s too close. Quentin lets out a noise that maybe could be described as a _growl_ and snaps his hips forward harder. He’s sunk into Matt’s body to the hilt, now, his thighs smacking against that perfect round ass. The squeeze when he hits bottom is _so_ good, almost too good, so he keeps himself moving, hoping he’s hitting the right spot and making this feel as wonderful for Matt as it is for him.

“Jesus,” Eliot says, quieter, a waver in his deep purr. “Look at you go. I might have to try out bottoming after all, if that’s what you look like when you top.”

It’s pretend, it’s all pretend, but he can ignore that just for a second, gasp out the response he thinks he’d have to that offer if this were really happening: “You’d do that for me?”

“Fuck,” Eliot chokes. His hands are fisted hard in the sheets on either side of him, Matt’s fucking going to town on his dick. “I would, I’d do anything. Let you spread me open, take your cock, shove it in me — make me come on it — oh, _fuck_ , Matt, baby, ah,” he says, looking down, one hand rising to cradle Matt’s head, huge and pale against his dark curls, “keep doing that— yeah, touch that pretty cock for us. How’s it feel, is Q fucking you good? Is he good at this?” Matt makes a noise that doesn’t have any consonants to it, but is clearly an affirmative. “Filling you up so nicely? His dick’s got the sweetest little curve to it, is it hitting right where you want it?”

Quentin doesn’t have a chance to wonder how the hell Eliot noticed _that_ detail, because Matt’s thighs are shaking, his hole is tightening down by degrees, making Quentin work harder to push into it. He feels like it’d be polite, probably, to reach down and try and jerk Matt off himself — isn’t that the expected thing? — but Matt seems like he’s got things under control, honestly, judging by how his back is tensing and his head isn’t dipping as far down over Eliot’s dick.

“Talk to him, Q,” Eliot says. “Oh, fuck, get him there— talk to him—”

“Nnnfuck,” Quentin blurts out, rather than anything coherent. How is he supposed to _talk_ with his cock achingly hard and buried in someone’s body, his balls heavy, the leading edge of an absolutely huge orgasm sparkling up his spine and rippling through his veins. “Um— oh, _fuck_ —”

Eliot’s voice is raspy but gentle, his gaze soft on Quentin’s face, when he says, “Just let it out, baby. Come on, you can do it. Tell him how good it feels to be inside him, how much you love it.”

Quentin's whole nervous system is alight with pure need, a star ready to go supernova, tight and overfull. “I love it,” he gasps, voice cracking embarrassingly, “you take me in so good, you’re fucking beautiful.” He grabs a handful of Matt’s ass for emphasis, and Matt moans open-mouthed, pulls off of Eliot’s dick to look back over his shoulder at Quentin. His face is pink with exertion, his breath coming in heaving gasps as his hand keeps working on his cock. “I’m gonna, fuck, you’re gonna make me come so hard in you, so fucking amazing— _oh_ —” 

Matt’s spine arches, his hips drop, and he clamps down so hard as he comes that Quentin nearly slips out of him. He grits his teeth and stays in, though, Matt’s pulsing around his desperately hard cock and his punched-out moan ratcheting him just that little bit closer to the edge. “Keep going,” Matt whispers, half-collapsed forward onto Eliot’s thighs but still looking back at Quentin. “Fill me up with your come, make me feel it,” and Quentin actually just— comes on the spot, no time for more thrusting, his orgasm dragged out of him without any intervention from his brain. “Oh my god, _fuck_ that’s hot.”

“Fuck, baby, shit,” Quentin hears Eliot say, hazily, through the blood pounding in his ears. “Matt—”

Matt groans and dives back onto Eliot’s cock. Quentin can’t blame him in the slightest. He’d give— a whole lot, right now, to have that huge, hard dick in his mouth, work himself back down to earth by sucking it until Eliot spills all over his tongue, let his fucked-out body and frazzled nerves coast on Eliot’s pleased, hungry moans, and then that deep, throaty laugh as he throws his head back and lets his orgasm wash over him.

Quentin’s still dazed, his skin humming with satisfaction, as they rearrange their sweaty, boneless bodies into a more relaxed configuration. Quentin ends up as the middle spoon and lets himself sink contentedly into the marshmallowy softness of the bed. His breathing gradually slows, his heartbeat settles back to its normal pace. He drifts on the syrupy-sweet happiness filling his chest, and any time his brain tries to chime in with some kind of _yes, but_ or spike of anxiety, he shifts back into Eliot’s arms or leans forward to give Matt a slow kiss, and fills right back up with endorphins. It’s the most wonderful afterglow he’s had, ever, and second place isn’t even close. 

Eventually Matt kisses them both and rolls himself laboriously out of bed, over and over until he reaches the edge and spills himself onto the floor. “You two are sweet,” he says as he pulls on the briefs that Quentin unearthed and tossed to him. “You snag an invite to Arima tomorrow?”

“We did,” Eliot says. “Will we see you there?”

“Not this year. Single and determined to mingle, that’s me.” He smiles, open and lovely. “But if you’re free the day after, look me up. I’m usually at the big Green pool in the mornings. Wouldn’t mind seeing you in the middle of a spitroast, Q.”

“Now there’s an idea,” Eliot purrs.

Quentin blushes down to the roots of his hair, he’s pretty sure — the strongest reaction his body can muster, at the moment. He waves as Matt blows them a kiss and sees himself out.

He’s expecting that Eliot will get up — go take a shower, or grab a drink, or even just move over to his actual side of the bed. Which would be _fine_ , obviously. Quentin got what he asked for out of the evening already. But Eliot doesn’t move. He stays spooned around Quentin, his arm draped over Quentin’s waist, loose and relaxed. “You did wonderfully,” he says. His breath is warm against the back of Quentin’s neck. “Was that everything you wanted it to be?”

Well— _no_. That’s all Quentin has to say: two little letters, one syllable. No. He literally could not have asked for a more perfect opening than this.

“It was great,” he says, chickening out yet again. “Like. _Really_ great.” He lets his hand drift down the bed until it brushes against Eliot’s, just a little. “I’ve, uh. I’ve never had sex like that.”

Eliot doesn’t move his hand away from Quentin’s touch. The opposite, actually: he curves his wrist so that Quentin’s fingers float gently across his skin, settling in his cupped palm. “Anal sex is more fun than vaginal, in my opinion,” he says, “although I suppose I have some in-built bias there. But it’s much more comfortable knowing you’re not going to be hurting the person if you go in too far.”

That’s— not at all what Quentin meant. He wasn’t talking about body parts, or sex acts, or any of that. But he can’t quite figure out how to explain himself better without straight-up saying _I meant I’ve never had sex with_ you _before_ , so instead he says, “I mean, yeah. I’ve done anal before.”

Eliot’s cupped hand tightens a little around Quentin’s fingers. “Have you?”

“Yes? How do you— what is your concept of me, sexually?” _Wow_ , that was a _wild_ sentence that just came out of his mouth. “I mean— do you really think I have like, _no_ experience with any of this?”

“I suppose I’d never really thought about it,” Eliot says lightly. He shifts a little, and Quentin becomes very aware that they are both still naked. And spooning. And holding hands. “Like I said, my brain can take some time to recalibrate.”

“Uh-huh. So you’d never really thought about it, but you have all these _opinions_ about how I— always worry about coming too fast? And that I like fingering myself? Sure, that all makes sense together.”

“That’s for our cover story, obviously.”

“Well, yeah, but. You can’t just be coming up with everything on the spot.” 

“Can’t I? I was briefly part of an improv team. _Briefly_. This isn’t so different.” Eliot chuckles a little, making the hair on the back of Quentin’s neck stand up. “A lot more satisfying. I didn’t have _nearly_ as many orgasms while playing Bus Stop.”

“So you’re what, just, deciding what you’d want in a fake boyfriend and then saying that’s what I’m like in bed?”

Eliot hums thoughtfully. “I’d say there’s more educated guessing involved than that. You’re perpetually anxious, so it’s not a stretch to think you’d worry about your stamina, whether or not there’s actually any problem with it. You wanted me to move you around on the dance floor, so you’d likely enjoy a partner moving you around or taking control in bed.” Quentin swallows hard, wondering if Eliot can feel how his heartbeat has picked up. “The fingering thing… that one _was_ more based on my own preferences, I suppose. I just threw it in for fun.”

Eliot’s arm is like a red-hot poker across Quentin’s waist, burning his skin where it touches. Quentin strokes his thumb down the side of Eliot’s wrist. “You weren’t wrong,” he says, before he can talk himself out of it. “I, um. I _do_ like that.”

Eliot goes still — not that he was thrashing around before, or anything, but there’s suddenly a little more tension in his body, a little more deliberateness in the way he rotates his wrist to catch Quentin’s fingers again. “ _Do_ you,” he says quietly.

Quentin’s mouth is full of saliva, all of a sudden. “Yeah,” he says. “I do it sometimes when I, uh. When I’m doing my own thing.” He closes his eyes, trying to ignore the fire in his cheeks. “Jerking off. I just uh, if I’m thinking about—” _you_ — “being with a guy, especially. You know. Or,” he says, realizing that Eliot’s been describing himself as mostly-to-exclusively a top all week, “maybe you don’t know, uh. If you don’t— like that.”

Eliot laughs a little, sending a shiver racing down Quentin’s spine. “I do know,” he says simply. “Have you only done it to yourself? Or has a partner fingered you before?” 

He’s really holding Quentin’s hand, now, their palms pressed together and their fingers interlaced, which— it’s _really_ emphasizing how big Eliot’s hands are. Quentin’s starting to feel like he could be ready for round two, even though it really hasn’t been all that long. “No, a partner— I hooked up with this girl a couple times, and then there was a guy from a party, they both, um. They got their fingers in me.” Eliot doesn’t immediately respond, so he adds, “It was pretty good.”

“It can be better than _pretty good_ ,” Eliot says. His voice is so _deep_ , rumbling through his chest and into Quentin’s body, down to his bones. “It _should_ be. You deserve that.”

God, if only Eliot would — roll Quentin over, press him into the mattress, show him how much better than _pretty good_ it can be — or even stay behind him, kiss his shoulders and his neck as he pushes those long, talented fingers into him, makes him come apart at the seams — it could happen. Quentin could make it happen, he could _ask_ for it, right here, right now, with his words, like a competent human—

—except he’s let the silence stretch on too long, now, and Eliot’s letting go of his hand, moving away a little so he has room to arch his back, roll out his neck. “In fact,” he says, “that can be our mission for the day after Arima, finding you a partner who wants to finger you. There are some very specific tents here, I bet there’s one somewhere in the Green zone that’s full of people who’d be game.”

The moment is gone — Quentin missed it, _again_ , let the ball fall to the ground in front of him with a _thunk_ instead of just reaching out his goddamn hand and catching it. But maybe he can fix it, maybe— “Hey, uh, El,” he says hurriedly, scooting forward to make space, then rolling over to face Eliot. “The whole um, Arima thing— it’s just for couples, right?”

Eliot looks at him warily. “Correct.”

“And by _couples_ , they mean…?”

“Relationships that have been established prior to the festival. That’s all.”

“So if we have to be like, _established_.” Quentin swallows. Having to make this speech is his worst goddamn nightmare, and it’s not _helping_ that his best friend and biggest crush is _naked in bed with him_ while he tries to scrape his thoughts into a plausible argument. “What if they— I think we’ve been doing good at uh. Acting like a couple, mostly, but. What if they _know_? That we haven’t had sex?”

“How would they possibly know that?”

“I don’t know, _magic_? There’s spells for like, getting rid of jizz, and doing anal prep, there must be some kind of spell for _these people have never rubbed their genitals together_.” Okay, wow, that is— the unsexiest thing he’s ever said, probably. “What if they don’t let us in?”

“I really don’t think we have to worry about that.”

“But—” Quentin takes a deep breath, which is difficult since his heart is trying to pound its way out of his rib cage. “Maybe we should? Just in case?”

“Just in case,” Eliot repeats slowly.

“Yeah,” Quentin says, frantically hopeful. “We could, um. I mean, whatever you want. I’m, uh. It’d be fine with me.”

He basically holds his breath for a long, long moment, waiting for Eliot to say something— anything— to stop frowning uncertainly, to give Quentin a smile or a smirk or a dark, heated look, to move forward— claim his mouth, wrap his arms around him, rub their cocks together— it’ll take, like, probably about ten seconds for Quentin to get hard, the only reason he isn’t right now is because all of his blood is busy making him blush from his forehead all the way down to his toes, it feels like—

But Eliot’s frown remains, and he shrugs, and then he _rolls away_ , gets up out of bed. “If they _do_ have some kind of _authenticity check_ spell,” he says, waving a dismissive hand, “then I guess we’ll just get turned away at the door and find something else to do with our evening. I want to know what all the fuss is about, but it’s not like going to Arima is essential to my having a good time here.”

Quentin wilts. “Um.”

“Don’t worry about it, Q.” Eliot sounds casual — but he sounds casual in the way Quentin recognizes where really, he’s very much not _feeling_ casual, but he’d like everyone to think he’s thoroughly unaffected.

“But—”

“Really,” Eliot says firmly, cutting him off. His face softens a little. “You’re very sweet to offer. But my bar for who I have sex with is set a little higher than _we can if you want, it would be fine_. I’m a proud slut, but I do have _some_ amount of self-respect.”

That is not even _close_ to what Quentin meant. He feels sick, a little, that that’s what Eliot took away from what he just said— but he doesn’t know how to fix it, at this point. “Okay,” he says. “Sorry.”

“Oh, no offense taken at all,” Eliot says lightly. “Like I said, you’re very sweet. I’m going to shower, you want in after me?”

Quentin nods, and Eliot heads into the bathroom, leaving Quentin with nothing to do but stare at the ceiling and contemplate his own inadequacies. It’s a long, long list, but that’s okay. He’s got all night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch 9 Acknowledgements: The name and details of Pertrick's, the anal prep spell used in this chapter, is taken from [Butterfly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butterfly/pseuds/Butterfly)'s absurdly hot marqueliot fic [my mouth (your lips) your hands (my hips)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20073673/chapters/47541880).


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin’s nerves are all over the place — not just because Eliot’s holding his hand as they walk, which is still dizzyingly wonderful even though he should really be used to it by now, but also because he has _no idea_ what he’s getting himself into. _Not even Eliot_ has any idea what they’re getting themselves into. He’s pretty sure they’re not going to get like, sacrificed to some eldritch sex god, but other than that, almost anything seems to be on the table.

Quentin wakes up to a gentle little _tap tap tap_ noise and opens his eyes into the bright midmorning sunlight. Eliot’s still asleep, sprawled on his stomach with his whole head shoved under a pile of pillows. Quentin looks around the room in sleepy confusion and stumbles out of bed to the sound of another _tap tap tap_. 

The noise seems like it’s coming from the window. When he gets over there, he finds an enchanted paper airplane hovering at roughly eye level on the other side of the glass. Its tip is covered in royal purple wax. As he watches, it pauses a few seconds, then bumps against the glass with a soft _tap tap tap_ , then pauses again, waiting. 

Quentin opens the window and the plane swoops in, flits around him for a moment — he’s weirdly reminded of a friendly dog sniffing at a new person — then bumps into his arm until he takes it gently out of the air and unfolds it.

There are words on the paper, but they’re shimmery and indistinct. Quentin squints at the page for a minute, feeling the beginnings of a headache build at his temples. And then some of the shimmers resolve into royal purple lettering: _Disable mental wards to read message_.

Well. That’s new. Quentin’s spent months learning how to get his wards in place, had it drilled into his head from seven directions that he needs to keep them up or he’ll like — give all the psychics an aneurysm, or get possessed by some kind of demon, or both at once. So he re-folds the paper airplane and settles himself back in bed to wait for Eliot to wake up and tell him what to do.

He really needs to figure out how to fix what he fucked up last night. He needs to figure out how to just like, _talk_ , like a _human_ who can _use language_ , instead of — stammering in half-sentences and making excuses and accidentally implying _I don’t really want you but I guess we should fuck_ when what he means is _I think I might die of longing if you don’t put your dick in me soon_. God, he’s a fucking disaster.

So, no more excuses. No more tricks, no more falling back on the crutch of their cover story, no more pretending like Quentin doesn’t want exactly what he wants. He’s like, _pretty_ sure, at this point, that if he just straight up _asked_ , Eliot would — probably be interested in fucking him. Most likely. So he should just — do that.

He’ll do it. He’ll just, he’ll say what he wants. That’s it.

“Why are you breathing so loud?” Eliot asks, his voice muffled by pillows. “If you’re jerking off, you could at least have the decency to wake me up first so I can join in.”

“No?” Quentin says, his voice rising to a squeak. The paper airplane crunches a little in his hand. “Um, we— this came. I can’t read it.”

Eliot emerges from his fluffy cave, his hair a masterpiece of chaos. “What?” He plucks the paper from Quentin’s grasp and squints at it. “Ah, interesting. The message must be keyed to our mental circumstances. That’s one way to keep the party exclusive.” He sets the paper on the bed between them and closes his eyes, then makes a couple of simple gestures that Quentin recognizes as key tuts for mental wards. “ _Very_ interesting,” he says, looking closer.

Okay, if Eliot thinks it’s okay to unward for— _whatever_ this is, it’s probably fine. Quentin carefully takes his wards down and looks at the message.

Instead of fuzzy, headache-inducing nonsense, the heavy paper is now full of graceful calligraphy in dark purple ink:

_The Elders of Encanto Oculto have chosen you for the honor of participation in Arima Bikotea._

_Arrive at the indicated place at sunset. The festivities will end at dawn._

_Dress for comfort rather than aesthetics, and do not overindulge prior to the event._

A small map is sketched below the writing, with a stylized letter A marking a particular beach. “Do you know where that is?” Quentin asks.

“I think so,” Eliot says, picking up the paper to study it closer. “It looks like a little inlet right near the—” He falls abruptly silent, but not because he’s stopped talking; his lips are still moving, but no sound is coming out. He frowns, shuts his mouth, then tries again. “I think it’s over by the—” Again, his voice stops. “Well, that’s interesting.”

“Uh, are you okay?”

“Let’s see.” Eliot clears his throat and says carefully, “Yesterday we went dancing at the cliffside club. Before that, we were at the paint pit. Today we may visit the culinary pavilion. Tonight at—” His voice stops again, and he nods to himself. “I guess that’s an effective way to avoid party crashers. There’s some kind of spell on the map — we don’t seem to be able to say any details from this invitation out loud. Very clever.”

Quentin stares at him, alarmed. “Is that— normal?”

“I’ve never seen it before, but it’s a nice touch, honestly. Certainly adds to the air of mystery around this event.” Eliot’s putting his wards back up, folding the paper neatly in fourths and setting it on his bedside table. “If I could bring myself to speak with any psychics, I’d consider trying to learn it for some of the more exclusive Cottage parties. Well. We have until— that time it mentions, then. And we’re not supposed to _overindulge_.” He yawns hugely. “I'm guessing that means no sex until this evening.”

Okay, so— Quentin hurriedly redoes his wards, just in case he’s accidentally broadcasting his thoughts into Eliot’s head, somehow— so, his plan of just asking Eliot to have sex will have to wait until after the party. That’s fine. It’s _fine_. Quentin’s waited this long, he can handle going one more day without touching Eliot’s dick. 

Probably.

As expected, Eliot rolls over and snuggles back under his pillows, and in a matter of minutes he’s asleep again. Quentin strongly considers joining him, but his stomach has started to growl, so instead he gets up, pulls on some clingy but incredibly soft lounge pants he finds in the depths of his suitcase, and goes to order some room service.

An hour or so later, Margo finds him happily curled up on the couch, nearly done with his book. She looks— literally the only way to say it is she looks like she had fun last night. Her hair is up in a messy bun, clearly frizzed out from rough handling; there are streaks of not-quite-washed-off mascara on her cheeks, and she’s wearing an unfamiliar wrinkled button-down over the top of her dress. And if Quentin was too stupid to pick up on those clues, her satisfied grin would tell the story all by itself.

“Morning, puppy,” she says. “Where’s your other half?”

“Still sleeping, I think.”

Margo casts a warming spell over the remains of Quentin’s food, then grabs a french fry and pops it in her mouth. “You wore him out that good, huh? How’s your asshole?”

“Jesus, Margo,” Quentin says, blushing reflexively but not actually feeling that shocked. If nothing else good comes out of this week, at least he’s getting lots of practice not reacting to Margo’s particular brand of trying to embarrass him. “We didn’t— that’s not what happened.”

“Quentin,” Margo sighs, “ _tell_ me you didn’t pull a you and fuck up a sure fucking thing last night.”

“Fuck off,” Quentin mutters, glowering down at his book. He reaches over to jerk his plate out of the reach of her greedy little hands. “Order your own fucking breakfast if you’re going to insult me.”

“Jesus, touchy.” Quentin expects her to swan off into her room, but instead she kicks off her shoes and climbs onto the couch with him. “Come on, pouty boy. Tell mama what’s wrong.”

“You _know_ what’s wrong.” 

“Yeah, you didn’t get El’s cock in you the way you so desperately want it.” God, she’s not even _trying_ to keep her voice down. “What happened? Where’d it go off the rails?”

“I don’t— he might _not_ be asleep,” Quentin says pointedly, cutting his eyes over to the closed bedroom door. That way he doesn’t have to think about the actual answer to her question. Because she’s right — god, why the _fuck_ is she _always_ right — he did _pull a him_ and let a nearly sure thing slip through his fingers. He’s going to fix it, he’s determined, but. It’s still frustrating that it happened.

“Okay, so come here so I don’t have to shout.” Margo straightens her legs, gestures at her lap. Quentin looks at her, perplexed. “Come on, Coldwater,” she says sharply. “I’m not usually this cuddly. Take it when you have the chance.”

One thing Quentin is _not_ getting practice with is resisting when Margo gives him orders, but he’s actually— pretty comfortable, when he turns and settles on his back and puts his head in her lap. She pets his hair, a little tangled since he hasn’t bothered to shower yet this morning. “Um,” he says. “We uh, we brought someone back from the club? And it was. Like.” He shuts his eyes so at least he can’t _see_ the open curiosity on her face. “It was _really_ good, with him. But I didn’t, like. It was all _with_ him. So I didn’t— it was so close to being, uh. Kinda like what you said, but not quite.”

“Christ on a damn cracker, only the two of you could manage to make a threeway into a bad thing,” Margo sighs. “It’s okay, though.” Her nails scratch pleasantly across Quentin’s scalp. “You can try again today. I can throw together another sexy outfit for you, although I can’t promise it’ll be as perfect as last night’s.”

“No, we’ve got the party thing tonight,” Quentin says. “So we’re supposed to not have sex today.”

Margo’s eyebrows rise towards her hairline. “All day? No sex at all for the whole day? Damn. Being in a relationship really does suck all the fun out of life.”

“That’s not—” He catches the smile in Margo’s eyes before it spreads all the way to her mouth. “I think we can handle _one day_ of not getting laid.”

“Well, for your sake, I hope this party is worth it. You let those balls get any bluer and people are gonna think you’re part Smurf.” She sighs dramatically while Quentin splutters. “That _does_ fuck with my plans to take a turn with your dick today while El fucks you, but I guess that can wait until the two of you have worked out all your weird gooey emotional shit.”

There’s like— a _lot_ of ideas happening in that sentence, and Quentin’s dick is pretty interested in a few of them even if the rest of him is mostly scared. He doesn’t have a chance to figure out how to respond, though, because the door to the bedroom swings open and Eliot calls, “Bambi, is that you?”

“It’s me, baby,” she calls back. “Q and I are just getting cozy on the couch. Should we come in? Are you decent in there?”

“You _know_ I’m not.” Eliot’s voice has a lascivious humor to it. “But you should come in anyway. I want to hear about your exploits last night.”

Quentin’s already starting to sit up so Margo can get out from under him. She pats him on the shoulder and launches herself to her feet.

“Stay out here if you want,” she says quietly, “but I think you’ll feel better if you at least come hang out with him for a while.” Then, at a normal volume: “Order us some food, would you, Q? I’m thinking brunch.”

Quentin orders pastries and fruit and little omelet bite things and mimosas and goes to sit cross-legged on his side of the bed, getting kinda close but not _too_ close to where Eliot and Margo are snuggled up under the covers. Margo’s still animatedly recounting the sex she had last night when the food arrives; by the time the conversation moves on, they’re all two very strong mimosas deep, so it’s easy enough for Quentin to open up about his teenage celebrity crushes (because come on, who _didn’t_ have a thing for Emma Watson in 2005?) and listen with only vague whispers of embarrassment as Eliot and Margo debate which guy on _The OC_ was the hottest. And Margo’s right: being near Eliot, laughing and teasing like they usually do, makes him feel a whole lot better.

The day feels slower, breezier, than the previous ones here; Quentin finishes his book, eventually showers, and takes a luxurious nap out on the little patch of lawn in front of their villa, bathed in the sweet scent of the flowering vines. Margo wakes him up after a while and makes him come sit on her bed so she can try to teach Eliot some kind of fancy braid using Quentin as a model, but it turns out his hair is too short and silky to actually stay where it’s put.

Other than Quentin’s brief description to Margo and whatever Eliot and Margo talked about while Quentin napped, the previous night’s escapade with Matt doesn’t come up. Eliot doesn’t _seem_ mad or awkward — he flirts just as easily as always, smiles and laughs and banters like normal. And Quentin, for his part, wants him just as acutely as he has this whole time. Even more, maybe, now that he’s basically put himself on a deadline for fucking saying something about his crush. The careful glide of Eliot's fingers through Quentin’s hair makes Quentin shiver, and when the half-done braid finally succumbs to gravity and unravels itself, Eliot just sighs and leans forward to gently kiss the top of Quentin’s head.

“I never should have told you about the conditioner,” he says. “If you were still using whatever three-in-one bullshit you normally do, this would have a chance of staying.” He finger-combs Quentin’s hair to undo the last remaining twists. A couple of strands tug a little on the rings he’s wearing, and the corner of Quentin’s eyes prickle with the tension — and now that he knows what having his hair pulled can _feel_ like, in the right circumstances—

He goes and takes a nice, long shower. Eliot didn’t say no masturbating.

_Dress for comfort rather than aesthetics_ is, hands down, the best party dress code Quentin’s ever encountered. He digs through all his remaining packing cubes and finds a pair of soft cotton shorts and a loose, flowy t-shirt. Eliot finds the instructions as distressing as Quentin finds them comforting, but eventually Margo convinces him that a pair of silky-soft briefs under a short satin robe will be abiding by the letter of the law while still being devastatingly sexy.

“You’re just skipping right to what you’ll be wearing in the morning,” she points out. “Whoever you bring home gets a little peek into their future: _I’m still gonna look this hot after I spend all night fucking your brains out._ ”

“Fine,” Eliot sighs, readjusting the tie of the robe for the umpteenth time. (There had been a _whole debate_ about a fancy knot versus a knot that’s as easy as possible to undo. Quentin had tuned most of it out for self-preservation reasons.)

They leave the villa as the setting sun is staining the sky pink and red and orange. On the surface, there’s nothing different about this evening: people are out and about, eating dinner at the different restaurants, taking in art exhibitions and live music, enthusiastically making out wherever they’re allowed to. As Eliot leads Quentin onto a Green branch of the path, though, they fall into step with a few other couples walking the same direction. With the secrecy spell from the invitation, they can’t exactly _ask_ if they’re also going to Arima Bikotea, but a few knowing nods and eyebrow raises are exchanged. 

Quentin’s nerves are all over the place — not just because Eliot’s holding his hand as they walk, which is still dizzyingly wonderful even though he should really be used to it by now, but also because he has _no idea_ what he’s getting himself into. _Not even Eliot_ has any idea what they’re getting themselves into. He’s pretty sure they’re not going to get like, sacrificed to some eldritch sex god, but other than that, almost anything seems to be on the table.

They veer off the path to avoid an arguing couple coming the opposite direction, cutting through a large tropical garden full of little glens and low benches — and, because this is the Green zone, someone getting well and truly pounded in the soft grass under a palm tree — and emerge on a stretch of beach that looks pretty much just like any other stretch of beach on the island. Eliot slows his pace and looks around, frowning at the setting sun. One of the couples they’ve kind of collected along the way slows as well and glances over at them with a silent question, but the other, a pair of women who look to be in their late fifties, keep confidently walking along the sand towards the rocky, tree-studded wall of the inlet.

As they follow, a weird buzzing noise starts at the edges of Quentin’s hearing, gradually getting louder and more irritating, until he realizes it’s just like what had happened when he tried to look at the invitation with his wards up. He stops for a second, dropping Eliot’s hand, and quickly does the tuts to bring his wards down. Eliot stops with him and catches on immediately, doing the same. And then, when they look at the wall of the inlet—

—it’s not the wall of the inlet, anymore. It’s still the same golden-tan stone, but instead of a craggy surface peppered with small trees, there’s a huge, elegant building carved directly into the rock. Broad steps lead up to a pair of double doors that stand open, spilling warm light out onto the shadowed sand. There’s music playing inside, graceful violin and deep cello. The older women are already starting to climb the stairs, waving and calling out to friends who are relaxing outside the doors.

Eliot lets out a low whistle. “I always think this place is going to run out of ways to impress me,” he says, “and it never does. God, I love Encanto.”

The interior of the building is just as impressive as the exterior: high vaulted ceilings, an intricately patterned tile floor, dazzling magical lights. Waiters are circulating with silver trays of hors d'oeuvres and flutes of champagne, and a trio of bartenders work a bar that stretches the entire length of one wall. All of the guests are clearly partnered up: most in pairs, with the occasional group of three and one little cluster that could be two couples or could be a group of four. Nobody is getting it on yet, though, or even really kissing, beyond the occasional sweet peck in the midst of a hushed conversation. They all seem to be waiting for something; anticipation is so thick in the air that Quentin can almost taste it.

Eliot finds a small divan that isn’t currently occupied and settles himself down, then pats the spot he’s left beside him. Quentin hesitates for a moment, calculating the risk versus reward of the move he’s considering — then decides, fuck it. He sits sideways across Eliot’s lap, legs stretching down the length of the divan.

“Hello,” Eliot murmurs. He doesn’t sound annoyed, thank god, just a little surprised. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah, so far,” Quentin says, although he’s really— he’s kind of not? They’re in a fancy secret room full of strangers, and he doesn’t know what’s about to happen or why he’s here, and Eliot’s probably going to go find someone else to fuck as soon as _whatever_ this is kicks off— god, what is his _life_ , that _sitting in Eliot’s lap_ is the most soothing thing he can think of to do? But for now, the warmth of Eliot’s skin, the silk of his robe under Quentin’s fingers, is keeping him relatively calm. _Relatively_. “This isn’t — what I expected, I guess?”

“I thought we’d walk in and things would already be in full swing,” Eliot agrees. “Emphasis on _swing_. Seems this party’s a little more structured than the rest of the activities here.”

“Well, the rest of the activities _you_ go to. I’m sure the workshops have, like, an actual schedule. You know, the ones you wouldn’t even let me try.”

Eliot laughs. “Well excuse _me_ for trying to help you make the most of your experience. You’ll have plenty of time to learn spells when you’re back at school, but it’ll be a lot more difficult there to fuck a different hot person every hour on the hour.”

“I guess.”

Eliot wraps an arm over Quentin’s waist, gently at first, then tightening around him when Quentin leans happily closer in towards his chest. His other hand comes up to brush an imaginary strand of hair out of Quentin’s face. “You are having a good time, though, right?” he asks softly. “In general? There may have been high points and low points, I get that, but—”

“There haven’t been any low points,” Quentin interrupts. _Or if there have, it’s because I created them for myself._ “It’s been—” He shakes his head, sighs. “On paper this kind of sounded like my worst fucking nightmare, but it’s been, kind of amazing? Actually? How much I’ve liked it.”

“Good,” Eliot says, real relief running through his voice.

“And I know,” Quentin says, barrelling on, “a lot of that is— I mean, basically _all_ of it is you. Because of you. So.” He turns his head and looks at Eliot, gratitude and terror— and _something_ , some huge feeling, swelling in his chest. “Thanks.” And he leans forward, just a few inches, and kisses Eliot softly.

It’s quick, and closed-mouthed, but it’s the first time he’s kissed Eliot with, truly, absolutely no excuse or explanation for it. There’s no game, no spells, nobody they’re trying to convince. It’s the scariest thing Quentin’s ever done, and he kind of can’t believe he actually made himself do it, but it’s— there it is. He did it. So.

When he pulls back, Eliot’s lips stay slightly pursed like he was so stunned by Quentin’s actions that he forgot to stop kissing him. He looks at Quentin with dark eyes and says, in a soft, cracking voice, “Q—”

But before he can continue, a bell rings out, echoing through the large room. A hush falls over the crowd, and a magically-enhanced voice seems to emanate from everywhere and nowhere, like the speaker is right behind them and at the far end of the room all at once. “Thank you all, beloveds, for gracing the sacred ground of Arima Bikotea with your energies,” it says. Quentin looks around, but can’t find the source of the voice. “The hour is now upon us. Proceed to your rooms, and delight in the pleasures this evening will bring.” 

Suddenly it becomes clear that the perimeter of the room is interrupted by a series of archways covered with richly-colored curtains. Quentin blinks, not sure how he didn’t see them earlier when he looked around. The assembled crowd begins moving, crossing to different archways, walking through them with their partners.

“That seems to be some kind of cue,” Eliot says in Quentin’s ear, “but I still don’t have the least idea what it means.”

“No,” Quentin agrees, still searching for the source of the voice. Maybe they can ask for further instructions? They can’t be the only ones who’ve never been to this before. Isn’t there, like, an orientation spiel they can get?

And then his gaze lands on an archway a little ways down the wall, hung with a curtain in a dozen pastel colors, whites and yellows and light blues and pinks in an almost quilt-like pattern. It’s not a design he’s seen before; there’s no earthly reason it should catch his attention any more than the other archways, many of which are draped in brighter colors, more interesting designs. But it _does_ catch his attention, like a hook to the center of his brain, like a neon sign flashing the words: _this way_.

“El,” he breathes, not sure why. He’s standing up, grabbing at Eliot’s hand where it’s resting on his waist, drawing him along towards the archway.

“Q—” Eliot starts again, sounding confused. Then he says, “Oh,” and his hand tightens in Quentin’s, and Quentin knows he’s seen it.

They don’t speak as they walk to the archway, gently push aside the linen of the curtain and go through. Behind it is a hallway carved from golden stone, magical lights in sconces along the walls, and a series of doors lining both sides of the hall. Quentin doesn’t look too closely at anything. He doesn’t care. He’s looking for something — he’s not sure what, but it’s here somewhere —

_There_. A simple door, just a little ways down the hallway, vertical slats of dark wood like the front door of the Cottage. There’s a small card pinned to it, with writing in ornate purple calligraphy:

_Eliot & Quentin_

“Guess this is what they meant by _our room_ ,” he says, and pulls Eliot along to it.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting to find inside until he opens the door and realizes: this. This is _exactly_ what he was expecting to find inside. A small room with golden stone walls, lit with softly glowing candles, filled with a huge bed just like the one in their villa, pillows and all. This one is a riot of color, though, the bedspread a brightly colored paisley fabric, a billowy canopy in coordinating colors magically suspended over it. What he can see of the floor is covered in deep, soft carpet, and there’s a huge armchair in the corner, the rich mahogany leather looking buttery-soft with age.

“Damn,” Eliot says softly, behind him in the doorway. His hand comes to rest on the small of Quentin’s back. “This is…”

“Yeah,” Quentin breathes, and steps inside.

The little catch in his brain, the impulse to _go, look, find your place_ , vanishes as he enters the room. It’s still perfect — it still feels like it was built just for him, or maybe just for him and Eliot together? — but it seems normally perfect, not mystically perfect. 

Eliot steps in after him and shuts the door behind them with a soft _click_. “Quentin,” he begins, after a second of silence. “I, ah. Hm.”

Quentin’s not really listening; he’s noticed a folded piece of paper on the bed, and he crosses to pick it up, unfolds it to find, as he expected, more of that purple calligraphy.

_Arima Bikotea — Soul’s Desire_

_Recitation of the cantrip below will complete the spell that began its work on you when you entered this sacred space. Your deepest desires for each other will be illuminated, brought to the forefront of your mind, and woven together to create a perfect evening of unbridled passion and carnal delight. The result will be unique to this moment and these companions: the truest meeting of body and soul, borne of each one’s innermost circumstance balanced in perfect harmony with the other._

_Fair warning, beloveds: some find that after this experience, the day to day routine of lovemaking is not as satisfying as it once seemed. We encourage you to return to these sacred shores in future years, to see what our enchantment can create for you in time to come._

“Holy shit,” he says, scanning through the explanation again. It’s a lot to take in. But also— kind of perfect? If the spell can read his mind, know what he wants— maybe find the things he doesn’t even _know_ he wants— then he barely even has to _do_ anything. Eliot will know, he’ll see, what Quentin wants to do with him, _all_ of it. All Quentin has to do is sit back and want. And _that_ , he is extremely good at.

“This is some seriously intense magic,” Eliot says. He’s stepped up behind Quentin to read over his shoulder, hovering just a little ways away. “This is, like, secrets magic, Trials magic. Psychic shit woven in with sex magic and who knows what else.”

“And it’s so specific,” Quentin says, turning the idea of it over in his head, the deep complexity. “If it can work on everyone who came to the party all at once, tap into all of our minds at the same time— that seems just, incredibly powerful.”

“It is,” Eliot says. He takes the paper gently from Quentin’s hand, looks it over again. “Easily the most powerful spell I’ve heard of, especially for sex magic.”

Then he sighs and shoots Quentin a rueful smile. “Too bad I won’t be able to tell Bambi, with the secrecy spell. Shall we go change and then try to track her down, see what she’s up to for the evening?”

Quentin is baffled. “Um, no? I— why would we— I mean, we’re _here_ , aren’t we? Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“I wanted to get in,” Eliot says, “see what the mystery was all about. Now I’ve seen, and it’s…” He looks slowly around the room. His tongue slips out of his mouth to lick his lips. Quentin is transfixed even through his confusion. “But I obviously can’t ask you to do this, so now we move on with our lives, hm?”

Oh. This is— Eliot still doesn’t realize. He doesn’t know, and this is Quentin’s moment, his chance. He’s not going to _fucking_ drop the ball this time. “No,” he says firmly.

Eliot raises his eyebrows. “No?”

“No,” Quentin says again, then flounders, a little, at the wild expression that passes across Eliot’s face. “I mean obviously if _you_ want to leave, then. We should leave. I can’t— I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want, either. But, um. I want to.”

Eliot sits down slowly on the end of the bed, the silk hangings shifting with the breeze of his motion. He’s looking intently at Quentin, his eyes searching for something.

“I do,” Quentin insists. “I want to, I want— god, I fucking want to so bad.” He swallows hard. Eliot's still looking at him silently, biting his lip, and— fuck, maybe he read this wrong, maybe Eliot _doesn’t_ want him. Fuck. _Fuck_. But maybe he could want him just enough to try this— it’d be worth it, if he would just this once, if Quentin can just have this _one_ time, that would be enough. Probably. “I mean, aren’t you curious? About what our, uh, _perfect evening_ would be like? How we would—” He can’t finish the sentence, not with Eliot’s gaze flaying him alive like this. “ _I_ am. Curious. And I’m maybe not the usual person you’d sleep with, but like— we’re here, and there’s this crazy cool piece of magic to try. And I want to, I promise I do, so like, if you’re open to it— why the fuck not?”

He’s been drifting towards the bed while he talks, drawn there magnetically by Eliot’s slightly parted lips, his pale thighs under the bright satin of his robe, his _eyes_ , huge and dark and full of slow, quiet emotions that Quentin is too frantic to have any chance of understanding. He sets his hands on Eliot’s shoulders to punctuate his last thought, and waits for him to flinch away.

But Eliot doesn’t flinch. He sits up straighter, tips his face up— and Quentin’s not great at reading body language, but he knows an invitation when he sees one. He leans down and presses their lips together, just like earlier: soft and sweet, long enough to show he’s serious, hopefully not long enough to scare Eliot away.

They break apart, and Eliot huffs out a little sigh. “Okay. I— okay.” He clears his throat, staring up into Quentin’s eyes, and smoothes out the piece of paper he’s still holding in both hands. “Yes.”

They stay where they are to read the spell together, and with every successive word, the pull of desire in Quentin’s chest gets stronger. By the time they finish the sentence, he feels ready to explode, like all the _want_ he’s been carrying tucked inside him has suddenly turned to pure energy and is spilling out of every pore, suffusing his skin with light.

“Q,” Eliot breathes, and he opens his fingers to let the paper flutter to the floor, cups Quentin’s face in both huge hands and drags him in for the kiss they both so desperately need.

Quentin moans, loud and broken, any remaining nerves melting instantly away at the heat of Eliot’s mouth, the way he’s kissing Quentin like he fucking _means_ it. His tongue swipes greedily over Quentin’s lips, tasting once, then coming back for more. Those long fingers slide up into Quentin’s hair, sending sparks of pure lightning across his scalp and down his spine.

“What did you mean,” Eliot asks, when they’re forced to come up for air, “you’re not the usual person I’d sleep with?”

The absurdity of the question makes Quentin laugh. “I’m not, like, _hot_ ,” he says, the spell coaxing the unvarnished truth out of him, then dives back in to kiss Eliot deeply again—

—except he can’t, because Eliot’s fingers have tightened in his hair, holding his head in place, and he _gasps_ , the bottom dropping out of his stomach with shock and pleasure.

“I’m sorry,” Eliot purrs— and _oh,_ Quentin had thought he’d already felt the full force of that low, seductive tone, when they were playacting all this week, but this is _different_ , Jesus— “are you _blind_? Do you have some kind of medical condition where you can’t use mirrors properly?”

“What?” Quentin’s blood is pounding in his ears. This is not where he thought this was going. “What the fuck—”

“You are so hot it’s _stupid_.” Eliot pulls him forward, kisses him, swallows the startled moan that escapes from his open lips. The compliment lodges in the overheated mess that is Quentin’s brain, makes his blood pound in his ears. Eliot’s tone isn’t sultry, it’s almost— annoyed? It’s not a performance. The spell may have drawn the admission out of him, but it wouldn’t be able to if it weren’t true, if Eliot— if _Eliot_ didn’t think he was _hot_?

Quentin doesn’t have a lot of time to marvel at how completely upside down and backwards that is because Eliot’s hands have moved from his hair to his hips and are dragging him onto the bed as Eliot scoots backwards onto it, then does some fucking judo move to flip them over so he’s on top, the whole length of his body holding Quentin down, and _fuck_ it is _perfect_. Quentin makes a really embarrassing squawk-groan noise against Eliot’s smiling, spit-slick lips, tries to arch his back and full-body shudders when there’s really nowhere for him to _go_.

“So this is what you want,” Eliot murmurs, his mouth sliding across Quentin’s cheek, down to his jaw — teeth nipping at his earlobe, holy _fuck_ — “you want me to push you around a little? I wouldn’t normally, when I’m just getting to know what someone likes in bed, but I can tell—” His huge hands pin Quentin’s wrists to the bed, out by his sides, and Quentin squirms but just ends up giving Eliot better access to the tingling line of his throat— “the spell knows, but I think I knew already, actually— knew you’d want someone to overwhelm you, take the guesswork out of it. Be _very_ fucking clear what you can do to make them feel good.” And he grinds down with his hips, letting Quentin feel the thick line of his hardening cock.

“Oh my fuck, Eliot,” Quentin gasps. He doesn’t really have enough functioning brain cells left to form words, but there’s a tiny whirlwind of magic spinning inside his head, collecting up his thoughts, funneling them out through his vocal cords. “I want you so fucking bad, I want that _dick_ — I can’t even tell you how much, but I think, fuck, can you feel it?” He shoves his hips up, rutting against Eliot’s bare thigh, already hard enough to throb at the haphazard friction. “I want it, I want it—” he can’t stop repeating it, his whole body one person-shaped cloud of pure need.

“You’ll get it,” Eliot says soothingly, and Quentin melts, nearly sobbing, under another round of deep kisses. “You’ll get it, sweet thing,” he whispers, nuzzling Quentin’s cheek. The contrast, the unyielding weight of his body and grip of his hands against his tender voice, makes Quentin’s blood sing in his veins. “I’m going to give you everything you need, you don’t have to wait any more.”

“I’ve been waiting so _long_ — El, god— why are you not _naked_ yet?”

Eliot laughs, bright and delighted. “You like seeing me naked, baby?”

“Of fucking _course_ I do, you arrogant prick,” Quentin says with absolutely no venom in it, just pure lust. “You drive me _insane_. Why you even bother with clothes, I truly have no fucking idea.”

Eliot sits up, keeping Quentin’s wrists pinned for a moment longer so Quentin will know he’s not going anywhere. “Social norms are such a burden,” he sighs dramatically as he unties his robe, shrugs it off his shoulders and tosses it away. His cock is pressing thick against the front of his briefs, a tantalizing little wet spot soaked into the fabric at the tip. Quentin’s mouth is watering just looking at it, his jaw aching to fall open so he can taste it.

“I wanna suck your cock,” he says, his whole consciousness fixating on that one thought — which, to be honest, is an experience he has pretty regularly.

“God, yes, you can suck it. Wrap those pretty pink lips around it, get your tongue all over it.” Eliot shoves down his briefs, making a small relieved noise as his cock springs out. “But first—” Quentin’s whole being shudders at the promise in his voice— “I want to see _you_ naked.”

Quentin’s already tugging at the hem of his shirt, stretching the thin fabric all out of shape as he tries to get it out from under Eliot’s hips and over his head, but the magic whispers to him to argue while he does it. “You’ve seen me naked all week.”

“There’s been too much else going on, I haven’t been able to truly _appreciate_ it,” Eliot says, shifting to pull off Quentin’s shorts. Quentin’s hard enough already that his cock slaps against his belly as Eliot frees it, sending a shock through his core. “ _Fuck_. You have the sweetest little dick.”

“ _Little_ —” Quentin starts, then shouts wordlessly as Eliot’s fingers splay over his cock, Jesus _fucking_ Christ, running lightly over every inch of it.

“Don’t get too hung up on the size thing, Q,” Eliot says. His expression is all raw hunger and curiosity. His eyes flash as he strokes over Quentin’s balls, rolls them in his palm. He draws Quentin’s foreskin back and thumbs over the head and Quentin shouts again, hips jerking erratically. “It’s just a turn of phrase. You’re perfect. It’s fucking unbelievable.” His grip tightens, and he finally actually _strokes_ , but only a couple times before he’s letting go, sliding his hips backwards and pinning Quentin’s wrists to the bed again. Quentin thinks his heart actually stops for a split-second when Eliot licks a stripe up the length of his cock, _humming_ like it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted. “I know, I know, you want to suck me,” Eliot says, like he’s reading Quentin’s mind — which he is, in a way — “you can real soon, I just want a little taste—” He ducks his head down, swirls his tongue over the leaking tip of Quentin’s dick.

“Eliot, _fuck_ ,” Quentin howls, hips straining up, pushing his cock against Eliot’s chin. “Don’t fucking _tease_ me, I’m so— I’m so fucking hot for you, I want it, let me— _anything_ —”

“I said soon,” Eliot says, his voice going sharp, and Quentin goes instantly still, all the breath whooshing out of his lungs. “Good. That’s good. You just have to trust me, baby.”

“I do,” Quentin whispers, the words spilling out of the aching core of him. “I trust you. You’re everything.”

Eliot looks up abruptly, meets his eyes. “I’m not,” he says roughly. “I’m just me.”

Quentin’s shaking to pieces while lying still, drowning in this endless moment. “I know. That’s what I mean.”

Eliot lets go of his wrists and crawls up slowly, so slowly, until their faces are level again. “Quentin,” he breathes, looking stunned, lost.

The spell knows how to get him back. “Yeah?” Quentin says, a lazy smirk growing on his face. “You need something?”

Eliot growls and catches his mouth in a frenzied, filthy kiss.

They change positions with perfect ease and grace, no misplaced limbs or flailing false starts; the spell guides their movements like they’ve practiced this maneuver a million times. Eliot ends up propped against the pillows, Quentin draped over him, mouthing hungrily at the ivory line of his neck, licking up beads of sweat from the hollow of his throat. He works his way down, Eliot’s skin striking sparks of pleasure against his lips and tongue, all the delicious noises he makes going straight to his dick.

“Oh, _fuck_ , baby, I love seeing you down there,” Eliot moans as Quentin finally, _finally_ reaches his destination: the firm, blood-hot head of Eliot’s magnificent cock. It sounds like porn dialogue, but Quentin feels in his bones and in the depths of his brain that Eliot means what he said. Quentin laps at the head of his dick, indulging in his desire to get his mouth all over it, get it all wet and messy with spit before he tries to work the thick length of it into his mouth — he knows that’s the right move because Eliot swears, fists his hands in the blankets. “That’s right, work up to it— take your time, get acquainted, Jesus _fuck_ ,” as Quentin finds a particularly sensitive spot and spends a blissful moment teasing the velvety skin with the point of his tongue, “you are, I can’t fucking believe you’re real.”

Quentin doesn’t quite have a response to that, other than the obvious: he grips the base of Eliot’s cock and takes the head into his mouth, moaning wantonly at how far his jaw has to stretch to take it in, how fucking _good_ it feels on his tongue. The whirlwind of hormones and desire that is his brain quiets, falls into a low, thrumming rhythm as he starts moving, taking Eliot deeper, then a little deeper, with each successive stroke.

“Holy shit,” Eliot gasps. His hands run up Quentin’s arms, over his shoulders, cradle the back of his head without pushing. “Holy shit, fuck, you— _fuck_ you are _so_ good, god, who the fuck taught you to suck dick— why wasn’t it _me_ — oh my _god_.” Quentin hums and shoves himself down again, Eliot’s dick brushing the opening of his throat, breathing in time with each movement so his gag reflex won’t freak out. “You’re taking me apart, baby, I’m going to come so hard in that pretty mouth. I can’t believe— god, _yes_ —” he trails off into a groan, the sound rippling low and warm through his whole body.

Normally it’s easy for Quentin to lose himself in a blowjob, narrow his focus all the way down to the slide and press and careful in-out breathing. It keeps him from getting bored, lets him do essentially exactly the same motion over and over again for as long as he needs to without his mind wandering. That’s not happening now, though. The tug of the spell on his subconscious keeps him aware, burns every second of this experience into his memory: the way Eliot’s fingers flex involuntarily in his hair a few times before Eliot remembers Quentin wants him to do it on purpose, and harder, sending spikes of pleasure-pain shooting down his neck. Every tiniest gasp and shudder and croak that comes out of the depths of Eliot’s throat, the uncontrolled noises in between the litanies of praise and swearing and heartfelt sweet nothings. He doesn’t _need_ to zone out to keep from getting bored: everything Eliot does is intoxicating, tailor-made to set Quentin’s heart singing and make his cock leak against the sheets.

He knows Eliot’s going to come before Eliot says it. Maybe it’s the spell that warns him — that would make sense, nobody can have their _perfect evening_ with unexpected come in their mouth, right? — or maybe he’s just that keyed in to Eliot’s body, the throb of a vein on the underside of his cock, the built-up tension in his thighs and stomach reaching a breaking point. Either way, he knows, and he keeps his mouth moving, opens his throat, and when Eliot says, “Oh my fucking god, Quentin— Quentin baby you’re going to make me come already, _fuck_ —” he’s ready, sucking steadily until Eliot shouts out a laugh and spills salty-bitter over the back of his tongue. He tastes like — well, like _come_ , there’s no getting around it — but also like victory. Like triumph.

Quentin barely wants to take his mouth off Eliot’s dick, even when he’s going soft and shuddering at every slow lap of Quentin’s tongue. Eliot has to manhandle him away, hauling him up by his hair and his shoulder so Quentin can collapse over him, so boneless it’s almost like he’s the one who just came.

Eliot grabs Quentin’s chin firmly, kisses him almost hard enough to hurt, sucking at his reddened lips. “You are amazing,” he murmurs. “You amaze me.”

“Jesus,” Quentin says, flushing. “It’s just a blowjob.”

It’s the right thing to say, the spell knows it is, but even as he says it, Quentin knows it’s not true. And he thinks Eliot can feel it too, the little tug in the center of his chest that says, _That was just the tiniest fraction of what I want to do with you._

Eliot kisses him, and kisses him, and draws him securely into his arms. Quentin kisses back, tingling and needy. The throb of arousal that he’s been ignoring for the last however-long is making itself known again, his cock twitching and rock-hard against Eliot’s hip. The spell prompts him to shift back an inch or so just as Eliot’s hand slides down to wrap around his shaft and find a slow, steady rhythm.

“I want to keep talking to you, telling you how hot you are, how good your dick feels in my palm,” Eliot whispers in his ear — they’ve stopped kissing for the moment, since Quentin is too turned on to manage even that level of coordination — “but I’m going to put my mouth on you, suck your cock so good until you come—” he pauses long enough for Quentin to whimper loudly against his cheek, then continues. “—then I’m going to hold you until you’re ready to get hard again, so sweet and turned on for me, and then I’m going to fuck you so good you’ll never want it from anyone else but me.” He kisses Quentin’s eyelids, the bridge of his nose. “That sound good, baby?”

“Eliot,” is all Quentin can say in response, his voice cracking. He can tell from Eliot’s expression that the spell translated that correctly: _fucking_ yes.

Eliot rolls him onto his back, slides down, down until he can suck Quentin’s aching cock into his mouth. He doesn’t waste time with teasing or tasting, just gets right to it, the pull of his lips and tongue sweet relief from the agony of being so hard for so long with barely any stimulation. Quentin’s not going to last long, how the fuck _could_ he, but the spell reassures him: it’s okay. It’s okay, Eliot _wants_ him to come, wants the proof of it hot and liquid in his mouth. They’ll go again, after, and they can take longer, but right now Quentin can give himself fully over to the sensation, sob and gasp and feel tears prickle at the corners of his eyes it’s so good as Eliot sucks him until his orgasm rolls over and through him like an avalanche.

As promised, Eliot crawls up and holds him tight afterwards, pressing kisses over his forehead, his hair, as Quentin tries to remember how to breathe normally. His palms are flat against Eliot’s chest. He can feel the thud of Eliot’s heart, uses it to sync up his inhales and exhales, bring himself back to the real world. Well, this version of the real world, anyway, where he and _Eliot fucking Waugh_ just sucked each other off.

He can still feel the spell, too, a quiet, pleased presence in the back of his mind. “It’s still going,” he says, knowing Eliot will know what he means. “I was a little worried it’d stop, like— after we both came, maybe.”

“This is Encanto Oculto,” Eliot says, sounding amused. “There’s no way the most powerful sex spell on offer here would only last through one orgasm. I think we probably have until dawn, based on what the invitation said.”

“And we got in here at sunset,” Quentin says, nodding. “So that’s like— Jesus, ten hours, maybe? Total?”

“More like twelve, this late in the year,” Eliot says casually, like _twelve straight hours of mindblowing sex_ isn’t thoroughly overwhelming, as a concept.

“God. That’s— a lot.”

“We certainly don’t have to use the whole time.” Quentin can feel Eliot’s mouth curve into a smirk. “Especially if you’re not sure you can keep up.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You said it yourself,” Eliot drawls. One of his thumbs is rubbing slow circles over Quentin’s hip bone. “You don’t exactly have my _breadth of experience_. Your poor little inexperienced body might not be able to take what I can dish out.”

“My— you—”

“There’s no shame in it. You just sucked my brain out through my dick, that’s quite an accomplishment in and of itself. If you need me to take it easy on you from here on out—”

“You are so full of shit,” Quentin says, his heart filling with indignant mirth. “You are unbelievable, you—” He grabs at Eliot’s neck, drags him down into a deep kiss.

They kiss and laugh and kiss some more, tucked tight up against each other. Eliot’s fingers trace electric patterns over Quentin’s back, his waist, his forearms. Quentin plays with Eliot’s hair for what feels like forever, stroking his thumb through his curls. He can’t remember the last time he felt this content. He thinks maybe he never has.

Eventually the spell nudges at Quentin, urging him to kiss Eliot harder, hold tighter to the nape of his neck, the curve of his shoulder. His body was already feeling like it could be time to ramp things up again, but it’s nice to have the confirmation that Eliot’s on the same page. He lets his kisses drift off-center, past the corner of Eliot’s mouth and across his jaw, down the side of his neck.

Eliot hums happily. “That’s good, baby,” he says softly. “Explore a little, see what makes— what makes me feel good. Mm.” 

Quentin has a strong suspicion that the original version of that sentence had the word _Daddy_ in it, until the spell prompted Eliot to change directions. Affection flares bright in his chest, and he kisses Eliot’s pulse point, then, at the spell’s suggestion, sucks at his pale skin, leaving a red mark behind when he lifts his mouth away.

“God, Q,” Eliot moans. “You wanna mark me up a little? Leave me something to remember this by?”

Well, _fuck_ , when he puts it like that— Quentin lets out a sound that could possibly be described as a growl and dives back in, sucks and kisses and scrapes his teeth over the elegant column of Eliot’s neck, leaving carnage in his wake. By the time he reaches Eliot’s collarbone, Quentin's breathing hard, his dick stiffening up between his legs. He glances down Eliot’s body, sees he’s in much the same state. And it’s so easy, so perfect, to reach down — Eliot loosens his grip with perfect timing, giving Quentin space — and run curious fingers over that big, beautiful cock, thrill at how it jumps in his hand and how Eliot’s hips hitch forward into him.

It feels like the dumbest thing to say, such a fucking cliche, but the magic swirling through their minds seems to think it’s a good idea, so: “I can’t believe how fucking big you are,” Quentin murmurs into Eliot’s shoulder.

Eliot rolls his hips, his cock sliding easily through the circle of Quentin’s fist. “I’m glad you like it,” he says. “You wouldn’t be the first guy to be scared off.” His chuckle fades into a soft moan as Quentin readjusts his grip so he can hold a little tighter. “You wouldn’t even be the first this _week_.”

“Yeah, that was— god, I got so angry, for a second,” Quentin says, huffing out a laugh. “Like it was an _insult_. Which, I guess it kind of was?”

“Yes and no. Everything has pros and cons, right? Pros of having a big dick: you have a big dick. Cons of having a big dick: sometimes, hot guys who would otherwise love to sleep with you don’t want it in their ass.”

“That makes no fucking sense,” Quentin says, barely thinking about it before the words are out of his mouth. “I mean, it’s gotta feel _so_ fucking good, getting stretched open like that.”

“And _this_ is why I was right when I said you’d bottom most of the time,” Eliot laughs. “Your opinion is not universally held.”

“Yeah, well, it should be,” Quentin says stubbornly.

“I appreciate the enthusiasm.” Eliot’s hands are back to rubbing slow circles over Quentin’s hips, and one slides lower, cupping his ass, squeezing just a little. “It’s what makes me think I might actually be able to get it in you without fucking destroying you.”

“ _Yes_ — yeah, let’s—” Quentin clutches at Eliot’s chest with his free hand, the thick weight of Eliot’s cock in his other hand making him a little dizzy. The spell nudges him to give voice to one of the dozen horny thoughts spiraling through his mind. “Even though I haven’t— I _want_ to, _please_.”

Eliot freezes for a split second, his cheeks flushing pink as he looks at Quentin. “You— you haven’t? Ever?”

Quentin shakes his head. “But _please_ , El.” 

“We will,” Eliot says, gripping Quentin’s ass tighter. Quentin moans. “We will, I just— really?”

“Yesterday you couldn’t believe I’d ever been fingered, and now you’re all shocked nobody’s fucked me?”

“I’m not _shocked_ ,” Eliot says, sounding slightly affronted but mostly just breathless. “I’m just—” He clears his throat. “I’m touched, really, that you’d want me to be your first.”

_First, last, only_ , Quentin thinks wildly, and the spell jabs at his mind, encouraging him to say it out loud, but it seems like opening up that whole emotional can of worms might delay getting Eliot’s huge cock inside him where it so badly needs to be, like, _now_. “I trust you,” he says instead. “I wouldn’t want anyone else. I know— I know you’ll take care of me.” The rhythm of his hand has fallen off a bit, so he tightens his grip again, curls his fingers over the head of Eliot’s cock, which now has a fat drop of moisture beading at the slit. “You’ll show me how good it can feel.”

“Jesus Christ,” Eliot says hoarsely, and rolls them over so his body is covering Quentin’s again, his cock a solid line of heat across Quentin’s thigh. 

Quentin’s cock is half-hard against Eliot’s stomach as they kiss deep and slow. A soft nudge from the spell makes him give in to his neediest instincts and start rutting up against him, working himself gradually harder. Eliot has to notice — he’s not being all that subtle about it — but he doesn’t say anything, or try to stop him. Instead, he starts fucking his tongue into Quentin’s mouth in time with every little roll of Quentin’s hips, making Quentin whimper at the unspoken promise in the motion.

When Quentin is truly about to lose his damn mind, Eliot’s kissing him so fucking good — he’s so fucking hard, they both are, _god_ — Eliot sits up just enough to draw out of Quentin’s reach. He drags two fingertips across Quentin’s tingling lips, then slides them inside to pet over Quentin’s tongue.

“I’m gonna take such good care of you, baby,” he says. Quentin’s eyes flutter shut instinctively as he closes his lips around Eliot’s fingers and sucks gently. “ _Jesus_ , fucking look at you, you’re a natural, getting my fingers all wet so I can work you open on them—” Quentin moans and sucks harder— “get you all spread open for this thick cock. I think the spell’s gonna let me do it perfectly for you, but you tell me if you want more or less of anything, okay?”

Their movements are supernaturally coordinated as Eliot guides Quentin into position with his knees bent and his legs apart, tucks a pillow under his hips. His huge hands rub over the inner slopes of Quentin’s thighs, then start working through a few simple tuts. “Touch that pretty cock for me, would you, baby?” he asks. “This spell can sting a little if you’re not used to it.”

The spell in Quentin’s mind calms the twinge of mild alarm that whispers through him, reminding him that he meant what he said: he trusts Eliot. Eliot’s gonna make it so good for him. So he does as Eliot asks, shuddering as he grips his cock and strokes a little. Eliot finishes the spell with a few muttered words of French and draws his thumb across Quentin’s abdomen, and _ow_ , yeah, that does kind of sting — Quentin moves his hand a little faster, chases away the strange pain with a little more pleasure.

“Good boy,” Eliot murmurs softly, making Quentin’s cock jump a little against his palm, “you took that so well. That’s the last thing that’s gonna hurt, the rest of it is good from here on out.”

“What, uh—?” Quentin asks, curiosity overcoming arousal for a second.

“Durand’s Expeditious Rinse. Gets you all squeaky clean inside.” Eliot is staring intently at the lower half of Quentin’s body, squeezing at his thighs, pressing the backs of his fingers behind his balls. “So I can get all the way in here—” Quentin jolts involuntarily when Eliot’s fingertip presses flat against his hole, circles around it lazily— “without worrying about any messes.”

“Gross,” Quentin says honestly. “But, uh, useful?” Eliot’s finger massages at his entrance again, and he lets his head fall back, gasping with pleasure.

“Very,” Eliot says. “Magic has its limitations, but the practical stuff is _extremely_ practical. Like this—” He moves into the tuts he taught Quentin last night.

Quentin moans loudly as something warm and soft flares inside him. He feels _open_ , suddenly, in a way he can barely even understand. Without needing much magical prompting, he lifts his feet off the bed, gripping behind his knees and spreading his legs wide. “Fuck, El, I want you inside me so bad.”

Eliot looks stunned. His cheeks and his neck and his chest are flushed pink, and his hands shake a little as he cups Quentin’s ass. “Yeah?” he asks. “Tell me.”

Quentin groans, and groans again, louder, when Eliot slides two fingers into him a moment later, and then the floodgates open: the friendly nudge of the spell in his head, the perfect stretch of Eliot’s fingers exploring inside him, it’s too fucking good to keep quiet about. “Been wanting this all fucking week,” he gasps. “When I saw your cock, that second night, all I wanted was to get on it. I’ve like— I like getting fingered, right, but I’ve never done more than that, so I knew it was like, _ambitious_ — fuck, oh my fucking god—” Eliot’s fingers are curving just right, rubbing in a way that makes sparks explode behind Quentin’s eyes, liquid heat build between his legs.

Eliot thrusts his fingers there a few more times, then goes back to slow, questing strokes. Whatever expression rolls across Quentin’s face — he truly has no idea what it is, it’s some combination of pleasure-agony-frustration-longing — it makes Eliot laugh, bright and beautiful. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to distract you,” he purrs. “You were saying? About wanting to get on my cock?”

“What is there even to _say_?” Quentin whines, mostly for dramatic effect, since the spell has plenty of ideas about which of his zillion thoughts he can repeat out loud. “It’s gorgeous, you’re fucking gorgeous, I want to feel you fucking everywhere. Want you pushing into me, making me feel things nobody else ever has before— you’re gonna fucking ruin me for anyone else, and I don’t fucking care, I want it so bad. Please, you _have_ to give it to me.”

Eliot’s hand has been steadily increasing its speed, and now he’s fucking his fingers into Quentin hard, fisting his cock with his other hand. “I have to,” he echoes breathlessly. “I have to, I can’t _fucking_ stay away from you. I tried, a little, but I— I didn’t try _that_ hard.” He pulls his fingers out, grabs at Quentin’s wrists to try and make him drop his legs. “It’ll be easiest if you’re on hands and knees—”

“No,” Quentin says, his desire and the spell both objecting furiously to the idea of Eliot’s cock sinking into him for the first time without them being able to _see_ each other. “No, like this. Move me however you need me, but I have to see you.”

“Fuck,” Eliot chokes out, low and frantic, and lunges over Quentin, crashes their lips together.

There isn’t any awkward readjusting to speak of: thanks to the spell, Quentin’s legs know where to go, his hips know how to tilt, and Eliot meets him seamlessly, the firm length of his cock sliding a few times over the slicked-up cleft of Quentin’s ass, an agonizingly hot preview. Fuck, it’s _big_. That fact is really, really obvious with it pushed between Quentin’s cheeks like this, spreading him open— and it’s gonna spread him even further, stretch him out so good, in a second when Eliot lines up.

“El,” Quentin whispers, muffled and messy against Eliot’s lips. “El, please fuck me.” Eliot shudders above him, thrusts a little faster against his ass. The spell gently prompts Quentin: do it again. Ask him again. He needs to hear it. “Fuck me, please— put it in, fuck me, fuck me so good—” He ruts up against the sweat-damp plane of Eliot’s stomach, his cock full and impatient. “I need you to fuck me, I need you to be my first, need you to see my face when you show me how good it can feel to have that big fucking dick in my ass—” He nearly sobs with relief when Eliot moves a hand down between them and he feels hot, blunt pressure against his waiting hole.

“Breathe,” Eliot says softly, although his own breathing is ragged and desperate. “Don’t forget, keep breathing, touch your cock if you want to— tell me what you need—”

“I need you _in me_ , Eliot, I’ve been needing it for fucking _ever_ —”

Quentin falls totally silent, all the words shocked out of him, as the head of Eliot’s cock pushes inside. Eliot looks down at him wide-eyed. “Okay?” he asks.

“More,” is all Quentin can manage.

Eliot gives him more. Eliot eases forward, slowly, so goddamn slowly, pushing Quentin open inch by inch. Partway through he stops for a second, and Quentin thinks he might be about to say something, but then his mouth twitches and he keeps going, making Quentin’s toes curl, his legs shake, as he bottoms out.

It’s perfect. It’s completely fucking perfect, having Eliot buried inside him to the hilt— physically inside him like he’s gotten metaphorically inside him, under his skin, invading his heart and his goddamn _soul_ , every fucking waking moment of his existence since the day they met. It feels even better than Quentin had imagined. And he’s imagined this _a lot_.

“How’s that, baby?” Eliot whispers, wide-eyed and shaking above him. His hair is a mess, falling over his forehead in a spill of wild curls. 

“Incredible,” Quentin whispers back. “So fucking good.”

Eliot shifts his knees a tiny bit, and it makes his hips shift, and they both let out identical shocked groans. “Can I—”

“ _Please_ yes,” Quentin moans.

Eliot doesn’t need telling twice. He draws back — not far, just enough for Quentin’s eyes to roll back in his head at the drag of his cock _so deep_ inside his body, then pushes all the way back in. He drops his head, nuzzles at Quentin’s cheek. “You feel fucking amazing,” he murmurs as he fucks Quentin slow and deep and incredible. “You open up so good for me. ‘S like you wanted this cock in you all along.”

“I _did_ , that’s what I’ve been trying to _tell_ you.” Quentin’s hips arch up to meet Eliot’s, to make sure he’s pressed in as far as he can possibly go, that he’s getting every goddamn millimeter of that thick fucking cock. “Wanted it just like this, nice and slow so I can _feel_ it. Enjoy it.”

“Mm.” Eliot kisses the corner of Quentin’s jaw, open and wet and sloppy. “And are you? Enjoying it?”

“Fuck _, Eliot_.” Quentin feels like he’s on the edge of tears, but in the best possible way. “I can’t believe how fucking good it feels.”

“Yeah?”

“I can feel you everywhere, I’m— so _full_ of you— giving me exactly what I needed—” Quentin turns his head a bit to catch Eliot’s mouth in a heated kiss, to try to say with his lips and his tongue what his words can’t seem to capture. After the prep spell he’d felt stretched and empty, and now the space it created is stretched taut around the firm length of Eliot’s cock, but it’s not just about the physical. Having Eliot holding him while he rocks into him, his breath hot against Quentin’s mouth, his heart thudding hard in his gorgeous, flushed chest— it fills up some emotional space that was hollow, before. That’s been hollow for who even knows how long.

Quentin’s so turned on he can feel it all the way down to the tips of his fingers. There’s definitely some primal, lizard-brained part of him that wants Eliot to slam into him _hard_ , fuck him like a goddamn animal, take his pleasure as fast and fiercely as he can and leave Quentin breathless with the intensity of it. Thanks to the spell, he knows there’s some part of Eliot that wants that too. But he also knows, they both know, that this is what they really need first, this sweet, slow joining. Quentin needs the soft hair on Eliot’s belly rubbing over his cock on every rolling stroke. Eliot needs Quentin’s legs wound around his waist, heels gently crisscrossed at the small of his back. They need their mouths hovering a fraction of an inch apart, their breath mingling with every small gasp, moan, private little noise they make just for the other person to hear, to take in and hold as their own.

It’s kind of typical, really, that Quentin would come to a no-holds-barred orgy and, when given the opportunity to really let loose, end up having heartfelt, tender sex in missionary position. But that’s what he wants, and that’s apparently what Eliot wants with him, so he can’t even feel embarrassed about it. It’s too perfect.

Each of Eliot’s deep strokes is pushing Quentin closer and closer to a shatteringly intense peak. He feels the tension building in the small of his back, in his hips. His balls are heavy and tight against his body, his muscles shivering every time the head of Eliot’s cock finds its home inside him again. “El,” he breathes, knowing Eliot will know what that means, with the spell dancing between and through them.

“Me too,” Eliot says back, voice rough. “ _Fuck_ , Q, you’re incredible. Just let me give you a little bit more, hm? I think we can— fuck, I think—”

Quentin feels it too, the spell singing in harmony in both of their minds, encouraging them to arch like this, move like this. Keep the pressure building, squeeze down on him, right _there_ — rock a little on that spot, it’ll make you both shout it’s so good— Quentin sneaks a hand between their bodies, slick with sweat and precome, and touches himself just a little, not enough to quite send him over the edge, until Eliot pants “Fuck, _fuck_ —” against his cheek and he pulls on his dick just like _that_ and they’re coming at the same time, shuddering and pulsing into and around each other and pressed so close Quentin hopes they never come untangled.

Eliot keeps his hold on Quentin as they both go loose-limbed and panting, rolls them over so they’re side by side. He pulls out slowly, wringing one last shudder from the depths of Quentin’s body, but leaves their legs intertwined, his arms around Quentin’s shoulders, and draws him in for a kiss, as deep and leisurely as his strokes.

“That was,” Quentin breathes between lazy kisses, “amazing. That was— _fuck_ , Eliot, that was the best thing I think I’ve ever done in bed.”

“You’re a dream,” Eliot says. “You’re like every wet dream I had as a teenager come to life, down to the fucking early-2000s long hair, and I just got to _fuck_ you.”

“You did,” Quentin agrees, too deep in post-orgasmic bliss to worry about that hair comment. “You fucked me so good. ‘M never gonna want it from anyone else now, just like you said.”

Eliot laughs, deep and easy. “I’d apologize, but I’m just glad I could give you the first time you deserved.” He plants another kiss on Quentin’s mouth, then more on his cheeks, his eyelids. “You deserve to feel so fucking good, no matter what you’re doing or who you’re doing it with.”

“You make me feel so good,” Quentin mumbles. His eyes feel heavy, the bed under them is so soft and warm. “Everything you do. Everything you say. ‘S perfect.”

“Just for you.” Eliot’s hands move behind Quentin’s back, and the messes that had been drying cold and sticky on his stomach and between his thighs both vanish. “I can be that for you.”

“Want it.” A yawn overtakes him, tensing his whole body, then when it releases him he curls forward into Eliot’s arms, resting his head against his chest. “But I also want a nap first.”

“Fine by me,” Eliot says, brushing Quentin’s hair away from his face. “Should I wake you up at any particular time?” His voice drops low. “Or in any particular way?”

“I think the spell will tell you.” Quentin feels a positive twinge in the back of his mind, like some invisible entity is nodding its head in agreement inside his skull. “I wanna do that again at least a few more times before dawn, so. It’ll know.”

“Me too,” Eliot says softly, and Quentin sighs happily, letting himself melt into sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin flops back into his spot on the bed, grinning at Eliot, eyebrows raised. “You seem quiet.”
> 
> “Maybe I’m saving my voice.” 
> 
> “For what?”
> 
> “In case you’d like to make me scream your name later,” Eliot says nonchalantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, did you think I was only gonna give you a single chapter of pure unadulterated Queliot smut? Have you _met_ me?
> 
> Expanding on the Under-Negotiated Kink tag: There will be some overtly kinky sex in this chapter without any real discussion first of limits, boundaries, etc. They are, however, under a spell that tells them exactly what the other person wants, which in this situation kind of replaces the need for verbal communication. Everything they do is something they both absolutely want, even though they don't lay it all out verbally beforehand. As always, please be aware of your own needs.

Quentin wakes up maybe an hour later, relaxed and content. He’s tucked under the multicolored bedspread — he doesn’t remember that happening, but hey, perks of having a telekinetic bedmate — cozy and satisfied down to his bones. Eliot’s smiling down at him, sipping wine from a crystal glass. There’s truly no sight Quentin would rather wake up to. “Have you just been watching me sleep?”

“Like an absolute psychopath,” Eliot agrees. He’s trying to keep a straight face, but his mouth twitches up at the corner. “No, I did some clean-up spells, rested a bit too. Then I thought, I’d really like a drink, maybe some snacks, and this appeared.” He gestures to the little table sitting at the foot of the bed, which holds a bottle of wine in a sweating metal bucket, another empty crystal glass, and a silver tray full of various snacky foods. 

“Damn,” Quentin says, pushing the covers aside so he can crawl to the end of the bed and reach for some kind of tiny sandwich. “Five star service, here.”

“Mm. Huh? Oh, ah, yeah.”

Quentin looks over his shoulder and sees Eliot not even attempting to disguise how he’s staring directly at Quentin’s ass. Despite everything they’ve already done this evening, he still feels his face flushing. He swallows his mouthful of cucumber sandwich and, at the spell’s prompting, arches his back a little as he reaches out to load up a small plate with a few more. The surprised little huff of breath he hears behind him sends a thrill up his spine.

He flops back into his spot on the bed, grinning at Eliot, eyebrows raised. “You seem quiet.”

“Maybe I’m saving my voice.” 

“For what?”

“In case you’d like to make me scream your name later,” Eliot says nonchalantly.

Quentin snorts. “I don’t think that’s likely.” Eliot raises an eyebrow, and he amends: “That I’d be able to, I mean. I’d _like_ to. Obviously. But even with the sex magic, I— well.” He shrugs. Too bad he can’t have a spell to make him talk like a goddamn normal human while they’re in between rounds of fucking. “That seems, like… advanced.”

“I’m easier than you’d think,” Eliot says, reaching over to grab a sandwich off of Quentin’s plate. Quentin laughs, and he smirks. “Yes, in that sense, too. But I’m experienced, not jaded. I can still be impressed.” He sips his wine. “You’ve impressed me already, tonight.”

Quentin’s breath catches a little at the heat in Eliot’s voice. “Oh yeah?”

“Absolutely.” Eliot’s eyes rake down Quentin’s body and back up to his face. “That _mouth_ on you. Jesus, I knew it was pretty, but I didn’t realize you knew how to _use_ it. I thought I’d either have to talk you through sucking me off or fuck your face.”

Heat and color wash through Quentin’s cheeks, down his chest. He finishes his mouthful of food slowly. “I’m, uh. I’m not— opposed to that?”

Eliot’s eyes darken. “It does go nicely with your desire to let me be in charge. We could pretend you need a lesson in how to give a decent blowjob, then I could fuck you again when I get impatient with your lack of skill.”

Quentin chews a little on the side of his tongue. That’s— there’s a lot of interesting things there, but it’s not _quite_ what he’d like right now. And the spell knows it. It curls in his mind, teases out a few of the pieces from Eliot’s suggestion, mixes them with the curiosity lurking in the back of his skull, and— he knows what to say. “Or you could talk me through rimming you, and then I could fuck _you_.”

Eliot swallows hard, his practiced veneer of seduction wavering as real surprise crosses his face. “Speaking of impressing me,” he mutters. “Yeah. Yes. Let’s do that. If you’re truly interested.”

Quentin silently scoots closer to Eliot, grabbing his free hand — unable to resist sliding his fingers over the expanse of his palm for a moment — and drawing it between his legs, where his cock is already thickening up. “I’m interested,” he says softly. “Teach me how to make it good for you.”

Eliot groans and dives in to kiss him hungrily. The plate tugs itself out of Quentin’s grasp, and Eliot’s other hand lands on the nape of his neck, holding tight— Quentin opens one eye and sees the snack plate and Eliot’s empty wine glass zipping through the air to land with a clatter on the table. Eliot doesn’t react to the noise, just pulls Quentin closer, wrapping his fingers around his dick and starting to stroke. The spell pulls Quentin’s focus back where it should be: to the kiss, the skilled movement of Eliot’s hand over his rapidly hardening cock, the little sigh Eliot breathes into his mouth.

When the slow rub of Eliot’s hand over him is starting to drive Quentin absolutely crazy, Eliot pulls out of the kiss, cups Quentin’s chin. “This sweet little cock is going to feel so good when you put it in me,” he purrs, thumbing over Quentin’s slit. Quentin moans, and Eliot shifts, moves his weight over him to press him back into the pillows. “Not to mention your tongue. You’re lucky, baby, I don’t let just anyone do this.”

“What, listen to you talk?” Quentin pants, his pettiest instincts encouraged by the spell.

Eliot’s eyes flash. “Getting sassy, are we? That won’t do.”

“So shut me up.” Quentin wriggles under Eliot’s weight, then gasps when Eliot grabs his wrists. Instead of pulling them above Quentin’s head, though, he and the spell guide Quentin into bending his elbows and covering his mouth with his hands.

“Leave those there,” Eliot says, softly but not gently. “I’ll need them in a moment, so I can’t tie you up. You’ll just have to prove you can be good enough to keep quiet and do as I say while I get ready for you.”

Quentin rolls his eyes, but he’s pretty sure Eliot sees his full-body shiver, too, so the impact might be kind of diluted. Eliot grins sharply at him and moves back to splay himself out on the bed, well out of Quentin’s reach.

“Just a few things to do,” Eliot says, moving through the same tuts from before, muttering in French, pressing a thumb to his own abdomen and letting out a controlled breath. “Then you can use your mouth as much as you want — as long as you follow my instructions. Do you think you can handle that?” 

Quentin nods. 

“You’re not going to try to get creative or do anything unexpected, are you?”

He shakes his head.

“Good,” Eliot says sweetly. He reaches forward, long arms stretching so he can trace one fingertip slowly along the back of Quentin’s hand. “If you surprise me any more tonight, I think my head might explode. Get on your back but sit up against the pillows.”

When Quentin’s settled, Eliot backs carefully over him, knees on either side of his chest, forearms braced on the bed outside his thighs. Quentin has never had such an up close and personal view of someone’s asshole before. It feels shockingly intimate; the contrast between Eliot taking charge, giving him orders, while spreading himself open for Quentin’s pleasure, is just— “ _Ohfuck_ ,” Quentin blurts out, muffled by his hands, as Eliot drops his head down to kiss the inside of Quentin’s thigh, bite sharply into the soft flesh.

“Mm,” Eliot says, like he’s agreeing with something Quentin said. “Okay, baby, hands on my ass. You can use your fingers however you like, but not your mouth, yet.”

Eliot’s ass is round and tight and dusted with dark hair — _something something masculine allure_ , right. His muscles flex under Quentin’s squeezing fingers, his hole twitches when Quentin presses the pad of his thumb against it. The delicate skin is hot, and it gradually goes darker pink as Quentin rubs it gently, thrilling at Eliot’s pleased moan.

“Tongue, now,” Eliot says, after Quentin’s fingers have gotten thoroughly acquainted with the furled little muscle, learned what kinds of touches will make it flutter and pull a little at his fingertip. His voice is rough. “I’m all clean. You can dive in however you’d like.”

Quentin presses a soft kiss to the curve of Eliot’s ass, draws his cheeks apart further with his thumbs. Another kiss, further in— a little flash of his tongue just below Eliot’s hole, and then he gathers some spit in his mouth and licks sloppy and wet over the tight ring of muscle.

The _sound_ Eliot makes— it’s uncontrolled, reckless, surprise and pleasure mixed, like somehow, even with all this build-up, he hadn’t _actually_ believed Quentin was going to put his tongue in his ass. A little flare of indignation sparks in Quentin’s chest, and he leans in, licks again, getting to know the feeling of Eliot’s muscles, the taste of his skin. It’s not unlike going down on a girl in the way he has to really push his face in there, work with the tip and the flat of his tongue to find a pattern that will make Eliot’s thighs shake. Helpfully, Eliot shoves back against him, arches his back to give Quentin better access. Quentin pauses in the rhythm he’s found long enough to lick a broad stripe up over Eliot’s balls, hanging heavy just in front of Quentin’s chin.

“Yeah, baby,” Eliot breathes, sounding wrecked already, Jesus— just from this? From Quentin tonguing over his hole for a few minutes? “Lick my cock, too, touch me— _Christ_ , Quentin,” as Quentin fits his hand around Eliot’s huge, stiff cock, tugs it towards him to suck at the bottom of the shaft and then strokes it slowly as he lifts his face back up to the main event.

Quentin’s getting really fucking into this, now — not that there was ever any chance of him not enjoying it, honestly, but it’s addictive, the way Eliot’s hole opens up for his tongue, the moans and curses that slip from his lips, first breathed out into the air of the room, then muttered against Quentin’s thighs as Eliot grinds his face into them. The balance of power has shifted in a way Quentin enjoys immensely. Pride warms his chest, beats through his heart along with arousal. Eliot was going to teach him how to do this, but turns out he didn’t even need to. Turns out he _can’t_ , almost, with how good Quentin’s making him feel, just by running on instinct (and, yeah, a little bit of mind-reading sex magic). Quentin’s impressed Eliot once at least, tonight, and now he thinks he’s doing it again. It’s a heady feeling, an almost incomprehensible idea. Quentin loves it.

“Fuck, baby, I want your cock,” Eliot groans. Quentin moans in response, his dick twitching against his thigh, so close to Eliot’s face he can feel the heat of Eliot’s breath on it. “Let go of me, I’ll turn around and ride you.”

Quentin makes a desperate sound against Eliot’s skin, imagining the tight heat that currently surrounds his tongue squeezing around his cock, instead— twitching and flexing and wet and smooth— the spell encourages him to let go, but he pushes in deeper for just one more blissful moment, clings to Eliot’s ass with one hand and tugs on his cock with the other.

“Quentin.” A sharp note of authority layers through Eliot’s voice. “I said I want your cock now, you fucking disobedient slut.”

Oh _fuck_ — Quentin’s ears burn, the bottom drops out of his stomach as a shockwave of arousal courses through him. That’s— he would not have expected that to be one of the hottest fucking things he’s ever heard, but—. “Sorry,” he gasps, letting go of Eliot, putting his hands up in the air. “Sorry, I just—”

“You just what?” Eliot asks, harsh, sneering, as he turns himself around, looming tall over Quentin. “Thought you could get away with not listening just because your tongue feels good in my ass?” He grabs Quentin’s chin hard, leans in for a bruising, biting kiss against Quentin’s stunned, slack mouth. “I thought you were trying to impress me.”

“I am, I’m just— I’ll do what you say. I will.” Quentin groans as Eliot leans down to kiss him again, lick into his mouth. “I just— I _loved_ it.”

“Yeah? You loved eating me out?” Eliot sits back over Quentin’s thighs, lazily fists Quentin’s erection. “Fucking me with that talented tongue of yours, making me fall apart with your perfect mouth?”

“Yes,” Quentin grates out, hips trying to arch off the bed.

Eliot laughs. “Then you’re really going to love making me fall apart on your perfect cock,” he says. “Do the spell. You remember it?”

On a conscious level, Quentin definitely doesn’t. He’s way too far gone, his brain a riot of pure need. Fortunately the magic is able to prompt him into the correct tuts, pulling them out of their memories and guiding his fingers. Eliot sighs happily right on cue, a shiver running through the muscles of his abdomen. Quentin drops his hands and grabs two fistfuls of blanket to keep himself from reaching out and touching anything — Eliot’s legs, his dick, Quentin’s dick, who knows.

He’s rewarded by Eliot’s face lighting up with delight. “Good _boy_.” Eliot twists his wrist just so before letting go of Quentin’s dick — but it stays in place, standing away from Quentin’s body, straining and twitching against the invisible force holding it still. Quentin moans, loud and desperate, wanting to feel that familiar tingle of Eliot’s magic washing over him everywhere— stroking him, curling inside of him—

“Maybe next round, baby,” Eliot murmurs as he spreads his knees wide, grabs the headboard. “For now, I just need it to hold you still for me— there we go—” He’s hovering just over Quentin’s cock, conjured lube drizzling out of him to slide warm down Quentin’s length, then lowering himself, slowly, slowly, so the slick heat of him presses gently but firmly against Quentin’s tip until the pressure is just right and Quentin slips inside.

“Fuck,” Quentin spits out. His hips want to fuck straight up, bury himself to the hilt. His hands want to grab Eliot’s waist and slam him down. The look on Eliot’s face convinces him to stay still, though. Eliot’s eyes are closed, lashes dark against his cheekbones, a tiny, focused furrow between his brows. His mouth hangs open, not quite a gasp, not quite a smile. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Eliot says, eyes still closed, voice breathy. He slides a fraction of an inch lower, the crease between his brows deepening. “ _Fuck_.”

“Are you sure?” He’s vise-tight around Quentin’s dick, Quentin can _feel_ his body working against the intrusion— god, if he hurts Eliot, he’ll never fucking forgive himself—

“I’m sure.” Eliot lowers himself a little more, and his face smooths out into a smile, though his eyes remain closed. “It doesn’t hurt. I just need to adjust.” He cracks one eye open to look at Quentin. “I wasn’t kidding when I said don’t let just anyone do this. It’s been a while.”

“If you don’t want to,” Quentin gasps, trying to ignore how fucking incredible it feels as Eliot impales himself further on his cock, “we shouldn’t— you should have said—”

“Quentin,” Eliot says, and his voice is deep and syrupy and _dangerous_ again, making Quentin’s cock twitch fiercely against the clench of his ass and his magic, “who’s in charge, here? Do you really think I’m going to do something I won’t enjoy just so you can get this pretty little cock wet?” Quentin somehow gets enough control of his muscles to shake his head _no_. Eliot opens his eyes as he eases himself further down, almost all the way, oh _fuck_ he feels so fucking _good_ , velvet and silk and molten heat squeezing Quentin’s dick— “Getting fucked is much more intimate than fucking someone. It’s not often I trust someone enough to let them in like that.” His expression is all intense pleasure and concentration, now. “But you’re a lucky, lucky boy. I want to try everything I can have with you.”

His thighs settle softly on Quentin’s as he takes him all the way, his rim squeezing around the base of Quentin’s cock. 

“There we go,” he sighs, rocking his hips a little to adjust the angle. “God, Q, baby, you feel amazing. You fill me up so nicely.”

Quentin knows he should say something — anything — but he just can’t. He’s hanging on so tightly to his self-control that he can barely _breathe_. He wants to give himself over entirely to animal instinct, rut up into the slick grasp of Eliot’s body until he spills all over his insides, run wild and take his pleasure as hard and fast as he can. It’s like someone unplugged all his higher brain functions, rerouted everything straight into _want_ and _need_ and _yes, fuck, yes_. The spell flits happily through the mess of endorphins inside him, directing his attention: look at Eliot’s blissed-out face. Now look at his chest, how it’s flushed under his chest hair, how his nipples are tight and peaked — look at how his stomach quivers, the way his cock is standing against it, so hard it defies gravity. That’s for you. That’s for _you_.

And then Eliot starts _moving_ , pulling up, easing down, his cock bobbing rhythmically. Quentin shouts and collapses back against the pillows, completely unable to do anything but lie there and _feel_. Above him, Eliot’s back arches, his mouth falls open. “That’s it, baby,” he growls. “Let me use this pretty cock any way I want it. You’re doing such a good job for me, staying still, not touching.”

Of course the second he says that, Quentin wants nothing more than to touch: Eliot’s chest, his mouth, his cock. He’s clenching his fists so hard in the bedspread his fingers ache. “Please can I,” he whispers.

“Almost,” Eliot says, working his hips faster. “Hold on for just a little longer.”

That instruction sears into Quentin’s veins, makes him simultaneously desperate for Eliot’s skin and desperate to obey, to do a good job for him. A memory whispers in the back of his head: _Did that pretty boy of yours tell you you had to wait?_ “Okay,” he pants, “okay, I will, I can wait— gonna be good for you—”

“Jesus Christ, Quentin,” Eliot moans. His cock looks frantically hard, swinging wildly with every roll of his hips. “You can— hang on, listen to the whole instruction— you can touch me but _not_ my cock, okay?”

Quentin’s already smoothing his hands up Eliot’s working thighs, over the elegant points of his hip bones, caressing his sides, thumbing at his taut nipples. “How are you this gorgeous,” he says, barely even putting a question mark on it. There can’t possibly be an answer to that question, it’s just, it’s a fact of life, one of the beautiful, terrible mysteries of the universe.

Eliot laughs breathlessly, shifts the angle of his hips, rides down harder on Quentin’s aching dick. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” he says. “Touch my cock, baby, you’ve got me so close already— can’t last more than a minute with you— _fuck_ ,” he spits out, as Quentin wraps both hands around his dick, the spell telling him how tight to squeeze, what rhythm to set. “Fucking _fuck_ , are you— are you even close, Q, baby, I’m—”

“Wanna make you come,” Quentin whines, unimaginable pleasure gathering in a tense coil in his belly. His next thought sounds cliche as all hell, but the spell’s into it, so he says it: “Want this big fucking cock to come all over me, get me all messy for you, cover me in it—”

“ _Oh_ my god,” Eliot chokes, riding Quentin fast, hard, frantic, squeezing around him more with every stroke. “Gonna get what you want in a second— _oh_ —” He throws his head back and laughs, that delighted, shocked laugh, as he spills over Quentin’s stomach and chest, long streaks of white dissolving into the sweat of his skin.

He lifts himself up off of Quentin a moment later, shifts smoothly to wrap a hand around his slick, twitching cock even as Quentin sobs at the loss of stimulation. “Let’s take care of you, now, baby.”

“Was I good,” Quentin gasps, embarrassment fully absent as Eliot works him over, drags him closer to the edge, “was I good for you, did I do good—”

“You did so good, you did everything I asked,” Eliot says. He’s leaning over Quentin, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his shoulder, his chest, licking over his nipples. “Did you like me riding you? Did my ass feel good on this sweet little cock?”

“So good—” There are actual _tears_ prickling at the corners of Quentin’s eyes, his hips are jumping, thrusting into the tight circle of Eliot’s fingers— a spell-heightened instinct at the back of his mind makes him say it, “Can I _please_ , please—”

“You can come, baby, you have my permission.”

Quentin shouts wordlessly, thrusts a handful of times into Eliot’s fist before the shockwave of his orgasm rips through him. Eliot makes a desperate noise along with him, like Quentin’s pleasure is his pleasure, like he can feel it too.

They are an absolute mess afterwards, as Eliot groans and flops over and pulls Quentin against him, heedless of the come and sweat streaked across his body. Quentin’s still shuddering, ripples of desperate pleasure shaking through him every few breaths. Eliot kisses his forehead, squeezes him tight until he finally settles.

“Was that okay?” he asks against Quentin’s sweaty hairline. “Was— it felt right, but—”

“Perfect,” Quentin sighs with all the air in his lungs. “Fucking perfect. All of it.”

“Good,” Eliot says, relaxing fully against him. “I was hoping— I wouldn’t have expected you’d get off on me calling you a slut, or giving you permission to come, but.”

“But apparently I do,” Quentin finishes for him. He’s regaining some control over his muscles, so he can wriggle to get his hands together, work through the cleanup spell to disappear the come from their bodies. Eliot hums gratefully, still boneless. “I don’t think I would’ve expected it either? And like, I think if you had asked, I would have— not known I wanted it, even? Gotten all hung up on like, is it misogynistic, is it weird.”

“Oh, it’s weird,” Eliot says, laughter in his voice. “My ideal kind of weird.” He tips Quentin’s face up with a finger under his chin. His eyes are full of the softest heat, like late spring sunlight. “You are…” He trails off, shaking his head.

“I’m what?” Eliot shakes his head again, gestures towards the foot of the bed to make the discarded bedspread float up and over them. “I’m what, Eliot?” Quentin insists.

Eliot leans in and kisses him softly, sweetly. “Can’t think of the word,” he murmurs. “Too sleepy. Rest with me, hm?”

And, well. That’s not an invitation Quentin is going to be passing up.

This time Quentin is the first to wake up from their nap, curled cozy and warm — possibly a little _too_ warm — in Eliot’s arms. He sighs happily, listening to Eliot’s slow, gentle breathing, until he gets too uncomfortably sweaty. Then he oh-so-carefully extricates himself (Eliot rolls onto his back, his hand splayed across his belly, looking just _unfairly_ beautiful) and looks around, vaguely hoping the room might have sprouted a bathroom as a result of his idle wish that he could take a shower.

No bathroom appears, but there is now a sink installed in the wall by the door. A small rack next to it holds several exceptionally fluffy towels. God, this place is cool. If it didn’t require letting an unknown spell have unhindered access to the darkest depths of his psyche, he could do this all the time.

He cleans up a little (the soap on the edge of the sink is the same purple as the restorative body wash in their villa, and his slightly sore thighs feel immediately better after a quick scrub) and looks around the room properly for the first time since they did the spell, munching on tiny banana muffins from the snack tray. Now more than ever, it feels perfect. Just perfect for them. Comfortable, lived-in, beautiful jewel-toned fabrics contrasting with the deep natural colors of wood and leather. Their room at the villa is glamorous, luxurious. This one is— it’s right. Their own little hideaway, with nothing but each other to focus on, get wrapped up in.

Not that he’d mind a book to read right now, while Eliot is sleeping. He looks around hopefully, in case a little bookshelf might have popped into existence next to the bed, but no dice. Ah well. 

That armchair would be really nice to curl up and read in, though. He settles himself into it, feeling weirdly unselfconscious about just, hanging around absolutely naked, putting his bare butt on someone else’s furniture. This is Encanto Oculto, there will be roughly a zillion cleaning spells done on this room before anyone else uses it. That’s assuming this furniture is even real, and not just some weird figment of their collective imagination. It’s comfortable, though. He can tuck his legs up under him so nicely on the broad seat. It’s probably almost big enough for two, actually, him and Eliot. It’d definitely be big enough if they weren’t directly side by side, if—

_Oh_. He knows what he wants to do next.

The spell does happy little cartwheels through his subconscious as Eliot stirs, stretches. His hand gropes fitfully at the place Quentin left beside him before he sits up, fixes bleary eyes on Quentin.

“ _Fuck_ you look amazing,” Eliot says, apropos of nothing.

Okay, well, two can play at the out-of-the-blue comments game. “I want to ride you in this chair,” Quentin says.

Eliot blinks twice, his eyes focusing and starting to shine with interest. “Oh yeah?” He shifts forward, crawls towards the end of the bed, his motions almost feline in their grace. “Got a thing about leather?”

Quentin tips his head to the side, considering. “I don’t think so? Or, not a big one? It’s more…” He licks his lips, trying to figure out how to phrase it. “It just feels _right_ , you know? How kind of— safe, comfy it feels? Like—” He swallows back the thought the spell is trying to make him articulate, _like the kind of home we’d build together_ , feeling like that’s gotta be coming on way too strong. “We don’t have to, obviously, I can’t, I can just—”

“No, no,” Eliot says, soothing, walking the few steps from the bed to the chair and petting Quentin’s hair away from his face. “You don’t have to explain yourself. I was curious, but ultimately it doesn’t matter. You can ride me in the chair for any reason you want, or no reason at all.”

Quentin unfolds himself, lets Eliot settle into the chair, legs splayed, arms on the armrests. It suits him like a throne suits a king, the rich color setting off his pale skin, his hazel eyes. Quentin’s breath hitches. He wants to _worship_ him. And right here, right now— and this is the remarkable part— he actually _can_. He drops to his knees on the soft, plush carpet, kisses Eliot’s shin, his knee. 

Eliot sucks in a sharp breath, eyes wide. “Q— I thought—”

“Shh,” Quentin whispers. “I’m focusing.”

“On— on what?” Eliot finishes on a small moan as Quentin wraps both hands around Eliot’s calves, squeezes firmly, still dropping soft, brief kisses over the soft skin of his legs.

Quentin looks up at him, smiles. Eliot bites down hard on his lower lip. “You.”

It’s good, so good, to take a little time and just— _explore_. Run his hands all over Eliot’s legs, press his nose to the crook of his knee, his cheek to the swell of his quad. The clean-up spells earlier took care of their mess from before, but he still smells amazing, like musk and sweat and _sex_. Quentin scrapes his teeth over the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, learning how much pressure it takes for Eliot to make a pleased noise in the depths of his chest. He noses at Eliot’s balls, licks them, enjoys how silky-soft the skin is under the flat of his tongue.

Eliot’s cock is hard again now, nudging at Quentin’s face, resting heavily on his forehead. He leans back to let it bob in front of him, then kisses the tip, licks up a tiny, salty drop of precome. He looks up at Eliot again, takes in his pink cheeks, his stunned expression. 

“I think you may be the hottest fucking person that has ever existed,” he says truthfully.

Normally Eliot would have some kind of clever response to a compliment like that, _I do my best_ or _Oh, baby Q, the wonders you have yet to see_ or something. Right now, though, he just lets out a shuddering breath. His fingers tighten and relax on the arms of the chair. “I thought you said you wanted to ride me,” he says, sounding almost-but-not-quite like his normal flirty self.

“Well, yeah.” Quentin kisses the very tip of his cock again, rubs his face along the length of the shaft. Then he sits up further on his knees, leans in to kiss the soft crease of Eliot’s belly. “I could say I wanted to run a marathon, and that wouldn’t mean I’d just go out and _do_ it.” Another kiss, dragging along the line of Eliot’s hipbone. “You work your way up to it, take plenty of time.” Another, pressed into the dark hair below Eliot’s navel. “Make sure you hit all the goals you want to hit along the way.”

Maybe he’s just gotten used to the spell, at this point, because it’s barely even prompting him anymore. He’s fully immersed in the moment, his eyes tracing unerringly to every spot he wants to kiss, every place he can inhale deeply and fill his lungs with pure, uncluttered _Eliot_. He works up, up, until he’s craning his neck to reach the deep pink points of Eliot’s nipples, kissing and licking at them gently until Eliot makes a broken, high-pitched keening noise. His heart is hammering against his ribs; Quentin can feel the beat of it against his lips, hear it echoing in his ears.

Quentin slowly stands, slides one knee between Eliot’s leg and the arm of the chair, places the other on the other side. His own cock is standing stiff against his belly. He thinks once something touches it, he might realize how turned on he actually is, but for now it’s just— there. It’s not as fascinating as every little piece of Eliot’s skin, not as important as the sigh Eliot lets out when Quentin settles his weight carefully over his thighs.

With that minor boost to Quentin’s height, they’re eye to eye. Quentin could spend about a lifetime staring into Eliot’s face like this, counting every one of his eyelashes, memorizing the pattern of creases in his lips. 

He can’t think of what to say, and the spell is no help. Maybe there aren’t any words for it.

So he ducks his head a little, picks up where he left off just above Eliot’s nipples. Rubs his face through his thatch of chest hair, drags the bow of his lips over his elegant collarbones. Nips carefully at the meat of his shoulders. A few of the marks he left earlier are still there, red shading into mottled purple where he sucked true bruises into Eliot’s skin. He presses his lips to each of them, followed by his tongue, proud of the evidence of his passion along the perfect pale column of Eliot’s neck. Eliot’s jaw is still smooth and stubble-free, his cheek flushed hot. His eyes flutter closed when Quentin kisses the corner of his eyebrow, his slightly furrowed forehead, the bridge of his aquiline nose.

Quentin hovers for a moment with his lips an inch from Eliot’s, letting Eliot’s shallow, shaking breaths ghost over his mouth, letting his eyes fall closed as well. Then he sighs and leans in.

As soon as their lips touch, Eliot’s hands, which have been clutching the arms of the chair this whole time, are all over him: raking up his back, holding firm at the nape of his neck, tangling in his hair. He pulls Quentin in tight, crushes their chests together, moans frantically into his mouth.

“Q,” he breathes, then kisses Quentin too deeply for either of them to speak. Quentin shoves in closer and oh, _fuck_ , he had been right about what might happen once he got some stimulation on his cock. Suddenly he’s shaking uncontrollably, full of so much pent-up emotion and arousal he thinks he might explode. He ruts against Eliot’s stomach, sucks on Eliot’s tongue. Enough fucking training, time to run this marathon.

He shifts up onto his knees, fumbles under his thighs to try and get Eliot’s cock lined up below him. Eliot gasps at the brush of his fingers. “Uh, Q,?” he mumbles into Quentin’s mouth. “You forgetting something?”

“No?” Quentin’s almost got it right, the precome-slick head of Eliot’s cock sliding over his balls, pushing behind.

“Prep? Q— Q, wait a second—” Eliot’s hands hook under Quentin’s ass, holding him firmly in place. 

“You fucked me like two hours ago, I’m good,” Quentin whines, squirming against his grip. 

Eliot nuzzles at the side of his neck. “I know it hasn’t been long, but I still don’t want to hurt you, baby. Prep yourself a little, please? For me?”

Quentin whines again, desperate, but nods against Eliot’s forehead. Eliot lets go of him, tuts through the lube spell and tips the resulting liquid over Quentin’s hands.

The first touch of his own lube-covered fingers against his hole makes Quentin gasp in spite of himself. He’s not sore, or even really oversensitive, but he can tell when he touches himself that someone has _been here_. That these muscles have had a workout, and recently. His first finger sinks in easily — almost too easily, he nearly loses his balance putting too much effort behind his initial thrust, but Eliot steadies him with firm hands on his hips — so he adds a second right away, making a quiet noise at the stretch.

“God,” Eliot whispers. Quentin glances at him: he’s wide-eyed, his gaze tracing restlessly up and down Quentin’s body. “Look at you.” He laughs, suddenly, a breathless chuckle. “Last night, when I said that thing about you fingering yourself — I never thought I’d actually get to _see_ it. I didn’t even really know if it was true. And now— _fuck_ , Q,” as Quentin moans, opening nicely around his fingers now, his muscles relaxing to let him get deeper, really stretch himself. Eliot conjures more lube, and Quentin obediently pulls his hand out to slick it up again, get himself soaking wet with it.

“I never,” Quentin starts, then chokes on the rest of his sentence as the motion of his fingers sends sparks up his spine. He tries again: “Never thought I’d— get to do this with you. Ever.” He laughs too, a little brokenly, tipping forward so he can rest his head on Eliot’s shoulder. “Never thought you’d _want_ to see me do this, or, or anything.” He whines a little, grinding down on his fingers, trying to work them deeper but his arm won’t stretch that far. It never does. 

Eliot’s stroking himself slowly, his cock shining with lube and dark with arousal. “You have no idea,” he breathes. “No idea— none at all.”

At the spell’s suggestion, Quentin looks up, meets his eyes. The need he sees there takes his breath away. Not just a purely sexual need, either — Eliot could have easily fucked him a few minutes ago, it probably would have been fine, but he’d held off on seeking his own pleasure to make sure Quentin would enjoy this. To watch Quentin shudder and open for him, surrender to the press of slick fingers, make sure he can take Eliot all the way into him where he most wants him to be. Quentin looks into Eliot’s blown-wide pupils and knows, as deeply as he’s ever known anything, that yes, Eliot _wants_ to fuck him, but what he _needs_ is to _have_ him, fully and completely. All of him, every part, all together.

He makes a soft noise and tips forward, presses their lips together sweetly. Eliot holds Quentin steady as he works himself off his fingers, lifts up over Eliot’s thick cock, slowly starts to push down.

Every fucking inch of it is maddeningly good: the stretch of the head, the long slide of the shaft. Quentin’s cock spits out a string of precome when he gets partway down and the ridge of Eliot’s cockhead hits something in him that makes pure pleasure arc through his whole body. It feels ridiculous that this is only the second time in his life he’s done this, because obviously this is — this is _right_. This is what Quentin’s body is made for, welcoming Eliot in, settling down against him and letting him fill in all the empty space Quentin has to offer.

They keep kissing softly as Quentin pushes back up, sinks down again, testing his range of motion. It’s agony, letting Eliot’s cock slide out of him, but unfortunately it has to happen to get Eliot’s cock back _in_ him again. Life is truly unfair. Eliot pets up and down his spine, gentle touches that melt any remaining tension out of Quentin’s muscles, have him licking hungrily into Eliot’s mouth.

“God, Q,” Eliot breathes, in a brief moment between kisses. He sounds as amazed by all of this as Quentin feels. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know you would _feel_ like this.”

“You feel,” Quentin manages, “so fucking good— in me, under me— El— god, _fuck_ —”

He’s got the rhythm right, now, lifting up and rocking down, tipping his hips forward to get every last inch in him. He winds his arms around Eliot’s neck, pulls in close to kiss him deeply. His cock drags against Eliot’s belly, stuttering erratically for the first few strokes until Eliot smears another handful of lube over his stomach. Quentin knows, so the spell knows, so Eliot knows, that if Eliot tried to spread it directly onto Quentin’s dick, wrap those long fingers all around him, things would be over in no time at all. And Quentin wants this to _last_ , and last, as long as it can. A long time. Possibly forever.

With a few orgasms under their belts already, it _can_ last a while. Quentin fucks himself slow and steady on Eliot’s cock, opens his mouth for kiss after kiss, thrills at the reverential brush of Eliot’s fingers over the points of his hips, the knobs of his spine, the nape of his neck. His desire boils low in his core, a constant background hum, as he takes Eliot into his body again and again. The spell lurks down there too, encouraging him. Roll your hips like this, tip your head back like that, let that bone-deep shudder run through you all the way to your toes. This is what you need. This is what he needs from you: to be held like this, as deep as you can take him, until it’s so good neither of you can stand it anymore.

“Fuck, god—” Eliot’s grip on Quentin’s neck tightens, his mouth grazes the corner of Quentin’s jaw. “I’m so close, Q, you have me so close—”

Quentin already knew, thanks to the spell, was already picking up his pace, grinding his cock harder against the twitching plane of Eliot’s stomach. “Touch me, please, _please_ , El— wanna come on your cock—”

Eliot groans. His hand slides hot and perfect around Quentin’s dick; his lips skim across Quentin’s, messy, off-center; his hips are rising to meet Quentin’s, pushing his twitching-hard cock up into him as he sinks down onto it, making fireworks explode deep in Quentin’s body. “El,” Quentin breathes, and “Fuck,” and “Please,” and “Yes,” and Eliot breathes back “Yes” and “Fuck” and “God” and “Quentin, Quentin, _Q_ ,” their words combining into a desperate torrent of _fuckpleaseElgodQyesfuckyes_ —

“ _Fuck_ ,” Eliot spits out, nearly shouting it into the side of Quentin’s neck as his thrusts lose their rhythm and Quentin swears he can _feel_ it, Eliot’s come pulsing into him, leaving something of himself behind as far inside Quentin as he can get it. His grip tightens on Quentin’s cock and he strokes a few more times, frantic and slick and oh so fucking good until Quentin’s coming too, yelling and shuddering and making a complete mess all over Eliot’s hand and stomach.

As soon as his legs will obey his brain’s directions, Quentin pulls himself up and off, sighing a little as Eliot’s softening cock slides past too-sensitive skin, and does a quick clean-up spell. He stays in Eliot’s lap, shifting his legs so he’s sitting sideways across Eliot’s thighs, curling into Eliot’s arms and resting his head on his shoulder.

Eliot holds him close, tracing meandering patterns over the curve of his back. “I think I can honestly say I’ve never had sex like that.”

“Like what?” Quentin smirks, the expression hidden against Eliot’s chest. “With the guy you’re fucking on top?”

“Brat.” Eliot kisses his temple. “No. I’ve had boys ride me before. Very cute boys, even. I’m not talking about logistics.” He settles his arms more firmly around Quentin, rests his chin on top of Quentin’s head. “I don’t even know what I _am_ talking about, really. It’s just— true. I’ve never had sex like that. Like any of this.”

Contentment washes through Quentin like water. He presses a kiss to Eliot’s shoulder, then to the side of his neck. “I hope it was good.”

Eliot laughs, loud and bright, shifts so he can kiss Quentin deeply. “You’re fucking ridiculous,” he says when they finally break apart. “I can’t believe you.”

“So you’re saying it was good?”

“It was so good,” Eliot murmurs. His voice is deep and sultry again, but Quentin can tell it’s for dramatic effect, not to start up another round. Quentin’s limbs feel heavy; Eliot’s skin is so warm and soft, the crook of his neck makes the perfect pillow. “And now, I think, it’s time to get you to bed.”

Quentin can feel it, the spell-borne certainty that when they fall asleep in a few minutes, they’ll stay asleep for the rest of their time. Even this soon after coming, he’s a little disappointed, but it does make sense that their _perfect evening_ would mean quitting while they’re ahead, not fucking until they chafe. And anyway, the idea of spending hours cuddled up in bed, sleeping tangled and sated in each other’s arms, is almost as good as the prospect of getting to suck Eliot’s dick one more time before dawn.

_Almost_. It’s a really fucking nice dick.

Lost in idle fantasy, Quentin yelps when Eliot hooks an arm under both his legs and somehow stands in one smooth motion with Quentin still tucked snugly against his chest. A warm tingle against his skin makes the hair on his arms prickle, and suggests that _somehow_ is almost certainly _telekinesis_. “That’s cheating,” Quentin mutters as Eliot carries him over to the bed, flips back the covers with another pulse of magic and climbs in.

“Yeah, but you love it,” Eliot teases back.

Quentin relaxes into bed, tension sliding easily out of his muscles. He rubs his face into Eliot’s chest hair and inhales deeply, sighs the breath out. “Yeah. I really fucking do.”

His eyes close, in this perfect little world, this tiny moment, and he drifts off into sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Britt frowns softly at him. “Everything okay?”
> 
> “Um.” Not even a little bit, but— he’s going to be fine. He’s fine, he _has_ to find a way to be fine. “Yeah, um, sure.”
> 
> “Uh huh,” she says skeptically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, the final chapter! Don't worry, these stupid stupid boys are getting a happy ending. 
> 
> Well. Maybe worry a _little_. But know it'll all turn out okay eventually.
> 
> Full acknowledgements for this chapter in the end notes!
> 
> EDITED TO ADD: AHHH I forgot to link the absolutely incredible [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3bGC5NRv1pY1SnNYTANyba?si=9qx4q_ZxSOCaJti62p4xkw&nd=1) that [Sylph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akisazame/pseuds/akisazame) made for this fic! It is spectacular and so fun and you should definitely listen to it while you read.

The next time Quentin is aware of anything, it’s definitely morning, and he’s definitely not in the secret stone fuck palace anymore. The light shining red through his eyelids is far too bright for that. When he manages to get his eyes open, the blanket he’s under is pure white, not a riot of beautiful colors, and there are birds chirping outside the window. Somehow, they’re back in the villa.

And _they’re_ is the right pronoun for that sentence, because Quentin is still curled up in Eliot’s arms, head tucked snugly under Eliot’s chin, exactly the way they’d been when he fell asleep. He lets out a sigh, breathing away his confusion at the sudden change of venue, deciding to just accept the good things in this situation. Sure, he has no idea how they got back here, but they’re cuddling. Eliot’s snoring gently against the top of his head, his chest hair soft under Quentin’s sleep-lazy fingers. Quentin can tell the spell is over, its friendly presence no longer hanging around in the back of his head, but he doesn’t need spells to tell him to enjoy this moment.

Maybe in a few minutes Margo will come crashing into the room, calling them dumbass lovebirds, grilling them for details that they physically won’t be able to give. Maybe they’ll order room service breakfast again, lounge around all day like they did yesterday, bask in having absolutely nothing to do. Other than each other, anyway. Quentin suddenly remembers Margo’s casual mention of her plan to _take a turn with his dick while El fucks him_ , and his breath catches in his throat.

Eliot stirs, grumbles a little. Quentin presses a soft kiss near his collarbone, and Eliot settles again, smiling in his sleep, rolling just slightly more towards his back.

The movement opens up some space between their bodies, which is mildly disappointing until Quentin realizes he now has enough room to look down between them, peek under the covers at their naked forms tangled together. God, Eliot’s fucking unbelievably gorgeous. The divots of his ribs, those mile-long legs, the contrast between his pale skin and his dark hair. The curve of his lower back, the sweet rounded line of his ass. And, of course, that dick: soft and relaxed in its nest of neatly-trimmed curls, oh so beautiful.

Quentin’s mouth is watering a little. He kind of misses the spell right now. If it were still active, it could confirm for him if it’d be a good idea or not to scoot down under the covers, kiss his way to the juncture of Eliot’s thighs and gently take his dick into his mouth, lick and suck until it’s hard, let Eliot wake up already groaning with pleasure from the heat of Quentin’s tongue sliding over him. _Quentin_ definitely thinks that's a good idea. He’s starting to get hard just thinking about it. But without top-secret psychic sex magic, he’ll have to do the responsible adult thing and actually _communicate_. With _words_.

Which he was intending to do today anyway, right? He’d decided that after the party, he’d tell Eliot what he actually wanted. The party just kind of— helped him out with that. Now that they’ve fucked — a lot — it should be even easier to talk about. The script’s all written out for him. _Good morning, Eliot, you know all that fucking mindblowing sex we had last night? I want that. Like, all the time. Can I suck your dick now?_

He can do this. He can _do_ this. He’s ninety percent of the way there already, the hard part ( _ha_ ) is over. Eliot kissed him, Eliot fucked him, Eliot’s holding him as he sleeps. What Quentin wants is far, far more possible than he ever would have dreamed.

Eliot stirs and grumbles again, but this time it’s more of an _all right, consciousness, here I come_ grumble. A huge grin spreads inexorably across Quentin’s face. Eliot is breathtaking, transcendent, the concept of sex in human form. He’s also a fucking adorable dork, sometimes. Quentin’s so glad he gets to see that side of him.

He kisses Eliot’s chest, then his collarbone again, tracing his lips up the elegant line of it to Eliot’s neck. Eliot hums sleepily and tips his head to the side. Quentin takes his cue and presses kisses over the marks he left last night, up the sensitive column of his throat, all the way to the corner of Eliot’s jaw and then across to his lips.

Eliot hums again and kisses back, tasting a little sour from sleep, but there are worse things. He makes a soft, pleased little noise, then another one when Quentin lets his tongue swipe across the seam of Eliot’s lips. Quentin sighs and closes his eyes, leaning into it.

He’s so blissed out on lazy morning makeouts that he doesn’t really register when Eliot’s little noises start shading from sleepy and pleased into mildly confused. He only knows something is up when Eliot cups his face in one big hand and draws back.

“Q?”

Quentin pushes his face into Eliot’s grip, kisses at the side of his hand. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Eliot murmurs. “Um— Q—” He shifts further backwards, far enough that Quentin can’t really reach him to brush their lips together. Quentin huffs out a disgruntled breath. Eliot’s morning breath isn’t _that_ bad, and Quentin would extremely like to keep kissing him. “The spell is done, for me.”

“Yeah, we’re way past dawn.” Quentin lets his hand skate up Eliot’s stomach, twirls his fingers into his chest hair. “We’ll just have to figure out what to do by ourselves from now on.”

“From— Quentin, the spell is done.”

“We’ve established that, yeah.”

“So— wait,” Eliot says, as Quentin starts to pull him close. “Wait. Just— hold on a moment.”

Quentin lets him go, lets him move away, putting more space between them. “Okay,” he says, confused. “What’s up?”

Eliot stares at him for a weirdly long moment, his face doing all kinds of complicated things. “We did what we came here for,” he says finally. “The party’s over, we got in, we— tried it out. You’re not under any obligation to do anything with me anymore.”

Quentin— really thought they were past all this shit, honestly, but okay, communication time. “It’s hardly a fucking _obligation_ to sleep with you.” He grins. “I feel like I made it pretty clear last night how much I liked it.”

“Right, but— you were under the influence of the spell. We both were.”

“So? It just encouraged us to do what we wanted to do anyway. _Unearthed our deepest desires_ , or whatever.”

“Our deepest desires,” Eliot repeats, very carefully, like Quentin is being dense. Which, sure, he’s confused, but he’s not _stupid_ , he understood the spell just as well as Eliot— “Like our primal, hormonal desires. We were running on pure animal instinct last night, Q.”

A cold, sick feeling is creeping into the edges of Quentin’s awareness, bubbling up in his stomach, making his chest start to tighten. “So?”

“So—” Eliot snaps his mouth shut and shifts, pushing himself up to nearly sitting before he starts again. “So that’s not— the same as what we actually _want_. You shouldn’t try to convince yourself that it is.”

“ _Convince—_ what? What are you talking about?”

“It’s easy to get carried away here, I should have— I should’ve warned you, Encanto can make you— there are things you might try out here that, when you’re back home and reality sets in, you realize it’s not something you want long term after all. This is one of those things.”

Quentin takes a deep breath. This is— Eliot’s not making any fucking sense, but it isn’t time to panic yet. He can salvage this. “It’s not.”

“It is, Q,” Eliot says, and Quentin hates his gentle tone. “You said it yourself, you were curious to see what our night would be like. Now we know. I don’t begrudge you your curiosity, and I certainly don’t regret anything we did, but—.”

“I said I was curious, yeah,” Quentin grits out, attempting to remain calm. “I also said I’d been waiting forever to suck your dick.”

“And that was— god, that was _very_ fucking hot,” Eliot says, his voice shaking a little, staring at a point somewhere beyond Quentin’s shoulder. “Animal instinct. Our deepest desires. I’m not denying that the spell did its job, or that the sex was good—”

“It was fucking _amazing_ , Eliot—”

“—but you have to know that’s not you, right, Q? That’s not— even if on some base level you’ve been attracted to me this whole time—” Eliot says that like it’s _ridiculous_ , like he just said _even if pigs could fly_ — “that’s not the kind of relationship we have.”

“Why not?”

“That’s not the kind of relationship I _want_ ,” Eliot clarifies, and Quentin’s heart drops to the base of his spine with a dull thud. “Not with you. I’ve tried friends with benefits in the past. It’s only ever worked with Margo, and you— that’s not what I want with you.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath, lets it out. “And if we have more sex while we’re here— I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Quentin feels like the walls are closing in on him. Eliot swims in his vision, his gorgeous, sad face wavering. Quentin blinks hard, twice, forcing back the tears.

He always knew this could happen. He knew last night when they did the spell; he knew this morning when he thought about _communicating_. Using his fucking _words_. There was a chance, a substantial chance, that even if he did everything right — which he almost certainly hasn’t — it still wouldn’t break his way.

There was never anything here for him to salvage. Eliot doesn’t want him, and that’s the end of it.

“Yeah,” he says, hating how rough his voice sounds. “Yeah, um, I’m just gonna—” He launches himself out of bed, stumbles towards the bathroom.

“Q,” Eliot says, but Quentin’s already through the door, closing it firmly— _not_ slamming it, he’s not throwing a tantrum, he’s just— he’s dealing with a lot right now. 

This whole fucking week was a mistake.

He cranks up the heat on the shower, scrubs himself until he’s pink all over. It’s not that he wants to wash off what happened last night— god, he’s going to treasure those fucking memories for the rest of his goddamn life, they’re all he _has_. It’s just that if he focuses on making his skin feel raw, his eyes prickle as he tugs his comb roughly through his hair, he doesn’t have to think about how his whole chest feels raw, too, on the inside. How his eyes are maybe also prickling for other, stupider reasons.

He schools his face as much as he can before he emerges, ready to pretend like everything is fine — which is so much wasted effort, because when he steps out into the bedroom, Eliot’s gone. Quentin is relieved for about two seconds before that feeling is replaced with an extremely pressing need to get out of the villa before he comes back. He’s going to be okay, he’s, it’s fine, he just— he needs a little time, is all, to get there. If Eliot tries to talk to him again right now, he’s going to do something truly embarrassing, like _cry_ , or whatever. 

His comfort-over-aesthetics outfit from yesterday is sitting neatly folded on top of his suitcase, so he pulls it on — it’s not like he did much of anything while wearing it, anyway — and heads out the door. The sunlight, the music, the chatter of passerby, everything hits him like a tidal wave. He blinks and puts his head down, starts walking in a random direction.

It’s not long before he finds himself back on the artists’ beach, where he’d explored the first day. It’s much busier now. Most of the artists seem to be here today, chatting with shoppers, sitting on their tall stools. The aisles are a little more crowded, and Quentin is forced to straighten his shoulders, raise his head, to keep from running into people. There are legitimate crowds by a couple of the more popular stalls, and while he’s trying to skirt around the knot of onlookers at a magical glass blowing demonstration, he manages to overbalance and stumble into someone, knocking them a step forward.

“Sorry,” he says, his unused voice grating in his throat. Then he recognizes the person he just nearly bowled over. “Britt?”

She calls her fallen sunglasses up off the sand with a twitch of her finger and smiles at him. “Quentin! Good to see you again. Doing some shopping?”

“Yeah— or, actually, no. Or. Um.” God, why can’t he answer a simple fucking question? His head feels cloudy.

Britt frowns softly at him. “Everything okay?”

“Um.” Not even a little bit, but— he’s going to be fine. He’s fine, he _has_ to find a way to be fine. “Yeah, um, sure.”

“Uh huh,” she says skeptically.

“Hey, um,” Quentin says, suddenly remembering— something he can do. Something he can actually fucking do _right_. Probably. Maybe. “I owe you a favor, right? From the game? Sorry, I was supposed to come find you, I just— I’ve had a lot going on.” Someone passing by nearly runs into him, and he backs hurriedly away from the busy area, into the shade of a stall selling hand-thrown dishware with temperature-control enchantments mixed into the clay.

“No worries,” she says, stepping aside with him so they can keep talking. “I figure I’ll collect on maybe a third of the bets I make in those games. There’s just too much to do here to guarantee you’ll run into someone again.”

“I’m here now, though. And I’m, um. I’ve got nothing going on.” Quentin swallows hard. “I’ll, uh— can I please do something for you?”

Britt eyes him for a long moment, looking as shrewd and calculating now as she had during the game. Quentin swallows again, hoping against hope she’ll say yes, make him do something, anything, that can take his mind off of his churning emotions. He’s not totally sure he can get it up right now, but he’s got fingers and a mouth and he just needs a _distraction_. He needs someone to want him for _something_.

“Sure,” she says finally. Then she holds out a tiny paper bag to him. “Carry my shopping for me.”

Quentin takes the bag automatically. It’s almost weightless. “Uh— okay?”

“I just got down here, so I’m going to be wandering for a while. Buckle up.” She rubs her hands together theatrically. “I’ve got a lot of holiday gifts to buy.”

They meander from stall to stall, looking at jewelry and pottery and paintings and sculptures. Britt asks Quentin’s opinion while picking out a woven sun hat for her mother (enchanted to repel mosquitos, perfect for gardening) and a set of custom-engraved highball glasses for her best friend from her grad program (a simple set of tuts will reshape the engraving into the initials of the person using the glass — no more mixing up whose drink is whose). She brags happily about her niece, eight years old and already reading at a tenth grade level, as a weaver rolls up and shrinks down a self-vacuuming area rug into a size that Quentin can actually carry. She asks a couple questions about how things are done at Brakebills these days, mostly simple stuff.

“I was only there for a few months before I transferred. The whole vibe was way too stuffy east coast prep school for me. Ruhua Ōšs was much more my style. Yeah, they don’t ever tell you upfront there are other schools out there,” she says, in response to the shock that Quentin knows must be written across his face. “It’d lose them funding from their board, or some shit like that, if too many students got poached. Luckily my roommate was from an old Magician family and actually knew there were other options, so I got in touch with the Ruhua Ōšs admissions office and got the fuck out of there.”

Quentin blinks stupidly, processing this information. If there are other magic schools— that might just save him, in this awful situation he’s created for himself. He can go back to school, try being just friends with Eliot again, try to get over what he thought he had and then abruptly lost… but he can get in touch with this other school, too, as a backup. Maybe start an application, in case it turns out he can’t actually handle the consequences of his stupid, stupid mistakes.

He’s so lost in thought that he nearly bumps into Britt when she stops to peruse a display of earrings (each set claims to let you understand a different language, when paired with the right spell). She looks back over her shoulder at him, smiles.

“Penny for your thoughts?” she asks.

“I’m fine,” Quentin says automatically. “Sorry. Uh.” She’s looking at him expectantly, clearly not believing a fucking word he says. “I um, I was expecting this favor thing to be more, uh— Encanto-y?” He blushes at her single raised eyebrow. “Sexual?”

She smirks at him, but not unkindly, more like she’s got his number. “It could have been, but I’m a hopeless romantic.”

She starts walking again, veering across the aisle to another jewelry stand, and Quentin has to dodge a few people to catch up to her. “Sorry, uh— what does that mean?”

“It means, obviously I know you and your boyfriend are open to having fun with whoever; you wouldn’t be here otherwise,” she says, poking through a tray of simple gold rings charmed against arthritis and finger cramps, “but I just can’t bring myself to get between two people who are still so fully in the honeymoon stage of falling in love.”

Quentin lets out an extremely undignified noise, part laugh, part cough, mostly snort. “Ha,” he says, trying to recover his composure. “Yeah, uh, that’s— we’re not. In love. Falling or otherwise.” He tries to laugh self-deprecatingly, but it comes out sounding pathetic. “We’re not even actually dating.”

Britt eyes him. “Coulda fooled me.”

“Yeah, well." He'd managed to fool _himself_ , so, seems like their acting had been pretty good. "We're just friends."

"Kind of a weird move, coming to a festival that's all about hookups and pretending you're not single."

"It was Eliot's idea. There was this thing he wanted to go to that he needed a relationship for, so he brought me."

She turns away from the jewelry stand, looking him full in the face. "Arima Bikotea?"

"Yeah."

"And you two went? Together?"

Quentin's chest tightens. "Yeah," he says hoarsely.

He's expecting Britt to like — nod sympathetically, or ask how it was, but instead she _laughs_ , grinning at him. "Okay, yep, you're in love." She turns away and drifts on to the next stall, leaving Quentin stunned in her wake.

"Um, I just said we're _not_ ,” he insists, jogging a little to catch up with her.

“I’ve been to Arima,” she says. “I know what the spells are like. It’s not just—” Her lips move soundlessly for a moment, and she stops, rolls her eyes a little. “It’s not only what happens… _during_. There’s magic through the whole process: the invitations, the—” Another moment of silence, and she frowns, tries again carefully. “You can’t even... find the front door to the... venue if you don’t… meet the criteria. The spells look into your subconscious and they make sure the only people who get to attend are people who are truly connected to each other.”

“I mean, yeah, we’re _connected_. We’re friends.” Quentin’s clutching his armful of Britt’s purchases tight to his chest, willing his heart to stop pounding. So much for a fucking _distraction_ — but he can’t be mad at her for bringing this up. She doesn’t know it’s fucking killing him to have to _explain_ what’s _actually_ happening here, how he and Eliot have— nothing beyond friendship between them. Nothing.

“That’s not the kind of connection that gets you in the door,” she says wryly. 

Quentin swallows. “Okay. Okay so maybe—” Britt has stopped her shopping, is just watching his face curiously as he struggles to comprehend what she’s saying. “I mean if I was— if I’m in love with him—” Putting those words out there, speaking them into reality, makes him feel a little light-headed. “That’s probably— why it worked.”

But Britt’s already shaking her head. “It can’t be one-sided,” she says. “The last time I went— well, the last time I had an _invite_ , I didn’t end up going.” She shrugs one shoulder. “My ex and I walked to where we should have gone, and did what we needed to do, but there was nothing there. And I was very much in love with him at the time.”

Quentin suddenly, desperately, needs to sit down. Fortunately they’re right by a display of hand-carved wooden stools, so he only has to stagger back a step or two. “Can you like,” he says weakly, “spell this out for me, maybe? In small words?”

Britt’s expression has shifted from curiosity through sympathy and now she has a dazzling smile growing on her face. “I’ll try, although I may not be able to say it as clearly as I’d like.” She clears her throat. “Because of the magic, the only couples who can participate are couples who have a strong mutual romantic and sexual interest in each other, who want to be— in it for the long haul. Or at least the medium haul, it’s not entirely clear.”

Blood is pounding loud in Quentin’s ears, louder than the rush of the ocean, louder than the chatter of the crowd. “Do they um, do they tell you that? When you like— sign up?”

Britt laughs. “Of course they fucking don’t. I had to do some real digging, when Fariq and I couldn’t get in.” Her expression sharpens, and even through Quentin’s emotional turmoil he manages to be briefly terrified. Why are all the women at Encanto so fucking scary? “I don’t have anywhere near all the details, but I know enough.” 

“And there’s— uh, there’s no way for one person—” God, this sounds stupid, but it’s— kind of the only possibility, other than the thing Quentin won’t actually let himself consider right now. “For, um, one of the people to love the other one so much that the other doesn’t even— have to? Like, to fill up the quota of, interest, emotions, _whatever_ , just from one side?”

The sand scrapes as Britt gestures at another one of the wooden stools, drawing it towards her so she can sit. “Nope.”

“So, but—” The rug Quentin’s holding has been drooping in his grip, and it escapes the crook of his arm, tumbles down onto the hot sand. He tries to catch it, which lets another bundle escape, and when he tries to rescue _that_ one a couple of bags get twisted around each other, tangling around his wrist. “That really just doesn’t make _any_ sense— I mean, it’s, El— he said—”

“What did he say, exactly?”

“That he doesn’t want a relationship with me,” Quentin blurts out, giving up and dropping everything else he’s carrying in a heap in front of him. “He was pretty fucking clear about it.”

Britt sits back on her stool, chews on her lip. “I guess that’s a possibility,” she says eventually. “Not everyone actually wants a relationship with someone they’re in love with, for all kinds of outside reasons. But— do you remember his exact words?”

“I was kind of fucking in the middle of having my heart broken. I wasn’t like, taking notes,” Quentin snaps, then immediately regrets it. “Fuck. Sorry. It was—” He rubs his forehead, trying to call up the memory without also calling up the flood of tears he feels lurking just around the corner. “He doesn’t want that kind of relationship with me, he’s tried friends with benefits before and it doesn’t work. He doesn’t want it.”

“Okay, now, play that back again,” Britt says, “but slower. He doesn’t want to be friends with benefits with you.”

Quentin just _said_ it out loud, he doesn’t need to _play it back_ to understand— that Eliot doesn’t want—

—to be—

—but if the spell checks, then he _does_ , he _has_ to—

—so he must think he’s the only one, and not realize—

_Oh._

“Uh,” he says faintly. “I need to. I need, um—” He’s standing without even thinking, scattering the pile of packages in front of him. “Shit, fuck, sorry, uh— can I—”

“You’re fine,” Britt says, grinning from ear to ear, waving him off. “Like I said, hopeless romantic. This is making my day. Now go!”

Quentin goes. He’s not entirely sure how he gets from the middle of the artists’ beach up to the path, it kind of just— _happens_ — and then he’s sprinting, dodging people as best he can, maybe trampling some of the flowers along the side of the walkway a little— arriving at the villa in record time and bursting through the front door—

— to find Margo, sitting alone at the breakfast nook with a half-eaten personal pizza in front of her, looking at him skeptically. “Where’s the fire?”

“Is El here?” Quentin gasps. His heart feels like it’s going to pound its way out of his chest, but that could be either the exercise or the adrenaline, no way to tell.

“No—?”

Quentin slaps at his pockets, but— of course, he didn’t bring it with him last night, since he was just going to be with Eliot all evening. Last he saw it was on the bedside table, but he’s not sure if that was yesterday or this morning— God, if Eliot took it with him, that’s— Quentin would be well and truly fucked—

He bursts into their bedroom and sees it immediately, set right in the middle of the stack of pillows on Quentin’s side of the bed, in the dent where his head had rested as they slept. A little circle of silver, quiet, calm. A piece of hope.

His blood pounds in his ears as he picks up the pocketwatch in one hand, moves his other fingers through the sweeping rhythm of Popper 52. The metal warms a little in his grasp, and then a little beam of light, like a keychain flashlight, shines out of the side, pointing slightly off to Quentin’s left. Quentin rotates his body — the beam of light seems to emanate out of a different part of the watch, continuing to point to exactly the same place.

And then he’s off again, brushing past Margo — who maybe was trying to talk to him this whole time? he didn’t even register it — speed-walking along the main pathway, eyes glued to the little beam of light guiding his steps. He veers left at a fork in the road, the watch leading him down towards the ocean. The ground under his feet changes from flagstones to grass to more flagstones to pure white sand, and then he turns right as the light swings around, pointing—

There’s a tiny little bar set up under a huge umbrella, and Eliot’s sitting on a tall stool, grinning, the bartender laughing at something he just said as he slides a tumbler of dark amber liquid over to him.

Quentin doesn’t even question what he’s about to do. Apparently he’s used up his entire stock of second-guessing already this week. He marches right up to the bar, taps Eliot on the shoulder, and when Eliot turns he says, “Eliot, I want to date you.”

It seems to take a second for Eliot to even realize who’s talking to him. Then his face falls. “No, you don’t.”

“For fuck’s sake, yes I fucking _do_ , you idiot,” Quentin snaps, then realizes that’s maybe not the best tactic to take. He runs a shaking hand through his hair, his fingers itching to just grab Eliot by the shoulders. “I should’ve said it earlier today, just, like, outright, like that, but I’m— now I am. Saying it. I want to date you. And I’m like, ninety-nine percent sure you feel the same way.”

“How—”

“Turns out that spell, the, uh— not _the_ spell, but the one that— got us in the door?” Quentin pushes on through Eliot’s wide-eyed confusion. “If we didn’t want to be together it wouldn’t have worked. We wouldn’t even have seen— where to go. The spell was in our heads the whole time. It knew. It was— kind of that authenticity check thing I was worried about, but not for if we’d fucked, just for how we felt. About each other. So.” He spreads his hands in front of him. “I want to date you. I think you want to date me. So, can we? Please?”

Eliot stares at him open-mouthed for a moment, then stammers, “You— the spell, it could—”

“It doesn’t work if it’s one-sided.” Quentin ticks them off on his fingers, all the objections he’d thought of, everything Eliot must be worrying about. “It doesn’t work for couples where one of them wants out, or isn’t sure about it. It doesn’t work if it’s just a physical thing. Can we? Can we, I really— I want you to be my boyfriend, for _real_ , not just for pretend. I’ve wanted it— a long time. A _long_ time.”

“We’ve known each other three months,” Eliot says shakily. He’s gripping his glass so tight his knuckles are white. 

“Feels like three years.” Quentin takes a tentative step closer, watching Eliot’s eyes. They’re still clouded with confusion and fear, but there’s something else in there too. Joy, fighting to get through the layers of bullshit Eliot’s hiding it under. Quentin knows — a lot about that. “Kinda feels like forever. Please—”

“Yes.”

“—we could just try— what?”

“Yes,” Eliot says, just a little louder than the hoarse whisper his first response had been. “Yes. Let’s— try. At least. For real. I want that.”

Quentin feels his lower lip tremble, and since he can’t bear the embarrassment of bursting into tears at what is possibly the happiest moment of his life, he instead lunges forward to throw his arms around Eliot’s neck and kiss him.

Eliot cradles the back of Quentin’s head, licks into his mouth like he can’t possibly get deep enough into it, but slowly, almost reverently. Quentin sighs against his lips, feeling the dam break just a little, a couple of tears escaping and trickling down his cheeks to pool at the corners of his mouth. This, _this_ — this kind of kiss, with all of Eliot’s heart and soul poured into it, where it’s not acting and not just pure lust, the kind of kiss he’s gotten a couple times this week, when Eliot was under some kind of influence that let him let his guard down— and now getting it like this, not because of magic or drugs but because they’ve fucking finally laid it all out on the table—

This is what Quentin meant when he said, last night, _You’re everything_.

Eliot licks a little at the corner of Quentin’s mouth, then pulls out of the kiss. “Q,” he breathes, smearing the wet streak of tears on Quentin’s cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Are you _crying_?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Quentin says fiercely, tangling his fingers into Eliot’s hair and tugging. Eliot’s open-mouth smirk turns a little more open-mouthed gasp. “I just told you a thing I swore I was never going to fucking tell anyone, I’m allowed to be a little, _whatever_.”

“You were never going to tell anyone you wanted to date me?” Eliot keeps stroking Quentin’s cheek, eyes searching. “Why?”

“Because you weren’t interested? Because you are— so far out of my league we’re like, on different fucking planets?” Quentin laughs, giddy, a little wet. “Because I’m a fucking basketcase and you don’t deserve to have that inflicted on you?”

“Don’t talk about my boyfriend that way,” Eliot purrs. He pulls Quentin in closer, and Quentin full-body shudders when he feels Eliot’s magic curling under his body, lifting him a few inches so Eliot can tug him easily into his lap. “There’s nothing you can say that would convince me not to be with you, now that I know— I know you feel the same way I do.” He nuzzles at Quentin’s jaw, kisses along the side of his neck when Quentin instinctively tips his head back. “So don’t bother trying to talk me out of it.”

“Okay,” Quentin says breathlessly, and shifts, nearly overbalancing them, to kiss Eliot again.

At some point later, while his tongue is halfway down Eliot’s throat and his hips have started to rock gently against the firm plane of Eliot’s stomach, Quentin becomes aware of a calm voice saying, “Yellow zone, gentlemen.” 

Eliot makes a disgruntled noise deep in his chest and nips at Quentin’s kiss-swollen lower lip, then sits back, grimacing, like putting six inches of space between their faces is physically painful to him. Quentin knows how he fucking feels. “Where should we go, baby?” He looks suddenly thoughtful. “Do you mind being called baby?”

“Not when you’re calling me that for real,” Quentin answers honestly, and is rewarded with another round of heart-pounding, spine-tingling kisses.

The conversation doesn’t progress at all until the bartender has to remind them for the second time that they are not in fact allowed to fuck on this beach, at which point Quentin makes himself actually stand up and back a couple steps away. His fingers twitch, aching to be wound through Eliot’s fingers, tangled in his hair, sliding over his back, wrapped around his dick, which, Quentin could _feel_ it getting hard under him, he fucking _wants_ it— “Let’s, um— god, I don’t fucking know. I want you,” he clarifies, since that’s literally the only thing he’s absolutely sure about in this moment. “So, somewhere we can be alone. And not too far away.”

Eliot nods hurriedly. “I know a place.”

The next beach over is Green zone, and Eliot heads straight for a row of— cabanas, technically, Quentin guesses, but they’re basically just four-poster beds slightly raised off the sand with turquoise linen canopies and curtains. There are five of them, spaced unevenly along the beach. “I did say _alone_ , right?” Quentin asks, looking around skeptically at the sunbathers and swimmers and the big circle of people doing some kind of daisy-chain blowjob thing on a huge blanket as Eliot drags him towards the bed.

“We will be,” Eliot says confidently. He chivvies Quentin up onto the wide mattress, then follows him, the sand on their feet magically sliding off their skin as they cross the plane of the bed, ensuring that not a single grain of it ends up in the sheets. Then he turns towards the headboard, where Quentin sees there’s a list of hand positions and a few lines of Amharic burned into the light wood. Eliot’s fingers move through the spell, and Quentin can’t help staring at them, how they flex and twist, graceful and powerful all at once.

Quentin feels woozy for a second, closes his eyes against a sudden surge of dizziness. When he opens them, they’re still on the bed-cabana, still on the same beach. But on the rest of the beach — there are no people anymore, no other cabanas, no voices. The sand is smooth and undisturbed, the only footprints in it are those of a few seabirds hunting for shellfish by the water’s edge. And the sky has changed, too: instead of a clear blue sky, the sun high overhead, it’s sunset. A few wispy clouds are streaked with purple, the ocean shining a brilliant orange-gold as the sun dips below it.

“Self-contained horomantic bubble,” Eliot says. Quentin gapes at him. “It’s not a good idea to use it more than once before the moon cycles completely through the various houses, you’ll give yourself a hell of a fucking headache if you try. But I figured you probably wouldn’t mind using your opportunity for this year.”

“Horomantic— Eliot, did we just _travel in time_?”

“Just a little bit.” Eliot’s smiling softly at him. “We can stay a couple of hours. The side effects start getting a little weird if we leave the bubble active longer than that. But while we’re here, we’ve effectively been removed from our main time stream; our cabana will have vanished entirely off the beach.” He reaches out, strokes down Quentin’s cheek with the back of his thumb. “It’s just us, baby.”

Quentin stares at him for one more moment. Then the absolute tidal wave of giddiness and arousal building inside him reaches a peak, and he pounces.

Eliot laughs as Quentin shoves him over, knocking him onto his back, attacking his throat with kisses. “I said we have a couple hours, there’s no— mm— there’s no rush.”

“I’m not rushing,” Quentin murmurs, ecstatic at the rapid beat of Eliot’s pulse under his lips. “But now that I’m actually, like, _allowed_ to touch you, that’s what I’m gonna do, time limit or no time limit.”

“Good, we’re on the same page, then.” Eliot’s huge hands roam all over Quentin’s body. “I can’t fucking wait to have my first time with you.”

Quentin laughs and rocks his hips, rubbing his erection against Eliot’s thigh. It feels so good that he immediately does it again, kind of losing whatever he had been about to say, but— oh, right. “I think we kinda, uh, did that already? Last night?”

“There was a spell, it doesn’t count. I mean, it _counts_ , obviously,” Eliot says at Quentin’s chagrined frown. “But this is our first time with— just us.” He tucks the curtain of Quentin’s hair back behind his ear, staring up at him. “The first time I really get to have _you_. No other people, no drugs, no spells.”

“Just a little light time travel.”

“A little,” Eliot agrees. God, Quentin is never going to get over that wide, bright smile. He’s never going to get over being shocked that _he_ can make it appear, that Eliot thinks _his_ dumb jokes are funny. “I’m pretty sure time travel doesn’t make you a different version of yourself, though, so.” His hands settle into place cupping Quentin’s ass, fitting perfectly over the swell of his cheeks. “I feel confident in saying I’m getting the real deal.”

Something in the way he says it makes Quentin’s stomach churn a little, cutting right through his molten happiness. “Yeah, uh.” He presses a kiss to Eliot’s mouth, trying to banish the feeling, but it doesn’t work, and he pulls back abruptly. “The real deal is, um. Maybe not— I’m um, I’m really not that good at sex.”

Eliot looks at him like he’s just said he believes the earth is flat. “I don’t fucking care.”

“No, really, I’m— what?” Quentin had been expecting a contradiction, not— that.

“I don’t fucking care,” Eliot says, propping himself up on his elbows, making Quentin sit up too, “how good you are at sex. Or, more likely, how good you are at convincing yourself you’re not good at sex.” Quentin starts to protest, and then suddenly Eliot’s thumb is pressing against his lower lip, sliding into his mouth, making him moan instead. “I want you exactly as you are, good, bad, whatever. I can teach you how to make me feel good, if you need it— but I’m pretty sure you’re not going to need it.”

And with that he curls a leg over Quentin’s calves and an arm around his waist and rolls them over. His weight somehow seems to press the anxiety right out of Quentin’s chest, and arousal floods through his body again, sharpening as Eliot grinds slowly against him. “I want to take you apart and put you back together again,” Eliot whispers, sucking at Quentin’s neck. “I want to show you the fucking stars. Make you feel things you’ve never imagined your body could feel—”

“Okay, but are you planning on putting your dick in me while you’re doing all of that?” Quentin gasps, clawing at the back of Eliot’s shorts, which are infuriatingly still present.

Eliot laughs, a rich, warm sound, and gets off Quentin to start stripping out of his clothes. “Every way you want it, baby.”

They get naked and Eliot gets back on top of him and they kiss, and kiss, until Quentin’s lips are nearly numb, until his brain is like a sieve, any thought that isn’t _yes_ or _more_ or _Eliot_ sliding right out of it. His cock is hard and needy, his chest heaving and heart pounding.

“El, _fuck_ ,” he groans, as Eliot ducks down and tongues over one of his nipples. “Please, what— what do you want?”

Eliot nuzzles his way across Quentin’s chest to work on his other nipple. “No turning the tables on me. I asked you first.”

“I mean—” Eliot _bites_ his nipple, and it _hurts_ but the hurt zips through his nerves like lightning, making his cock fucking _twitch_. “ _Fuck_ — I mean, do you want me to suck your dick until you come, or should I just suck it a little so you can fuck me after?”

“ _Jesus_.” Eliot sounds shocked — which, honestly, Quentin kind of shocked himself, too, just laying it all out like that, but he’s fucking _done_ dancing around what he wants — but he recovers quickly. “I notice there’s no scenario here in which you _don’t_ suck my dick.”

“Absolutely none.”

Eliot sits back on his heels, the sunset washing his body with highlights of pink and gold. “You’re perfect,” he says, sounding awestruck. “You are— unreal.”

Quentin takes advantage of his momentary freedom to scramble onto his knees and lunge face-first at Eliot, and winds up crashing his nose into Eliot’s hipbone. “Ow.”

“Shit, are you okay?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” He blinks hard a few times until his eyes stop stinging, manages to press a sloppy kiss against Eliot’s belly without further injuring himself. “So much for perfect, huh?”

Eliot smiles down at him. “No, I think I still stand by it— _fuck_ —” His fingers slip into Quentin’s hair as Quentin takes his cock into his mouth, one hand tightening to tug, the other petting gently. “Yep, definitely perfect, _god_.” 

Quentin sucks him greedily, pushing himself deeper, deeper— Eliot’s got _so much cock_ for him to suck and he wants it _all_. Eliot gently nudges at his head to change the angle, and Quentin’s eyes roll back into his head as Eliot’s dick presses all the way back to his soft palate. Eliot swears, and swears again, louder, as Quentin holds himself there— pushes his limits, keeps his gag reflex at bay with sheer force of will, lives in that delicious feeling of _almost-too-much_.

All too soon it’s actually too much, and Quentin pulls off and takes a huge breath, coughs to clear his throat for his next attempt. Someday, he’s going to do it right. He’s going to get that whole huge fucking cock in his mouth. It’s gonna take practice, but, well— he’ll have _opportunities_ to practice, now, and the reality of that sends a fucking thrill all the way from Eliot’s fist in his hair down to the tips of his toes, curled into the soft sheets. He kisses the head of Eliot’s cock, wet and open-mouthed, swirls his tongue over the silky skin. His eyes flash up, up, to where Eliot’s staring down at him, looking completely bowled over. Quentin wraps his mouth back around his dick, starts sucking again, watching Eliot’s face. 

A low, overcome sound tears its way out of Eliot’s chest. “Jesus fuck, Q.” He strokes over the stretched-taut skin of Quentin’s cheek.

Quentin sucks him deep again, holds until his eyes are prickling, then pulls off. “Yeah, I’m, uh— pretty okay at this part, I guess.”

Eliot bursts out laughing. “ _Pretty okay_. Right. If you keep being _pretty okay_ all over my cock, I’m going to be done before— fuck, Oh—” Quentin gets another couple good strokes in, totally unable to stop himself. Then Eliot’s hips stutter forward, pushing too deep for a second, making Quentin choke and pull off abruptly. “Fuck, sorry. That was rude.”

“No, I uh—” Quentin coughs again. “I think I like it? But like, when I’m expecting it.” He takes a shaky breath and straightens up so Eliot’s dick isn’t right there in his line of sight, constantly tempting him to suck it just a _little_ more. “Maybe for now we can switch it up?”

Eliot pulls him in close, their bare chests colliding, heated skin and lean muscle, _god_ he is so fucking hot, Quentin can’t fucking stand it. “I should confirm, you do _want_ me to fuck you, right?”

“ _God_ yes.” Eliot kisses him, hard and wanting, so Quentin can’t continue his thought until they come up for air. He doesn’t have any trouble remembering what he wanted to say, though; it’s flowing through his veins, dancing over his skin. “And don’t hold back at all. I want you to fucking _wreck_ me.”

Eliot reaches down to cup his ass, squeezing, the tips of his long, talented fingers teasing their way towards his hole. “Got your fill of soft, tender sex last night, hm?”

“I mean— no.” Quentin smiles into Eliot’s shoulder, kisses the side of his neck. “But we’ll have time for more of that later, right?”

“All the time you want. I’ll drop out of as many classes as necessary.”

Quentin frowns. “I don’t— that’s not really—”

“Kidding, baby, kidding. I know you take school very seriously.” Eliot gives his ass one more squeeze, then pushes lightly at his shoulder. “Turn around for me.”

As Quentin settles, rearranging pillows into a comfortable cushion for his head and forearms, he asks, “So if we’re doing this no spells, just us— does that include prep spells?”

“I was thinking I’d do it all by hand.” Eliot punctuates his words by smoothing his palms over Quentin’s hips. “Take my time with you, make sure you’re ready.”

“Mm, not like— _too_ much time, though, right?” Quentin bites back a strangled noise as a lube-covered finger rubs gently over his entrance.

“Exactly as much time as it takes,” Eliot says, sounding infuriatingly smug. Quentin can’t actually stay infuriated with him for long, though, as Eliot strokes the sensitive skin of Quentin’s hole, gradually applying pressure. Shocky little jolts of pleasure rush through Quentin’s whole body until he shudders and opens enough that Eliot’s finger slides right in. “God, yes. You’re so fucking good.”

Quentin makes a really pretty embarrassing noise and presses his face into the pillows as Eliot works him open. It’s different, doing this without the prep spell. Technically he should be more used to doing it this way, where there’s a moment of _wait wait that feels weird_ before he relaxes into the intrusion, but apparently he’s gotten used to the convenience of sex magic really fast. He knows what to do, though: breathe, relax, focus on the good stuff. On the warm ocean breeze flowing over his skin, on the glowing tension of arousal deep in his core. On the fact that it’s _Eliot_ behind him, easing two long, beautiful fingers into him — undoubtedly looking turned on and disheveled and unbearably hot, peppering soft kisses across the small of Quentin’s back, whispering _good job, baby, you take me so good already_ against his shivering skin. _Eliot_ , actually touching him, _wanting_ him. Wanting him for this, and more than this, for everything Quentin wants.

A gentle tap on Quentin’s shoulder blade: “Get your face out of that pillow,” Eliot chides playfully. “I want to hear you.”

“S’not much to hear,” Quentin moans. It’s true, he’s barely fucking coherent, fully blissed out now on Eliot’s fingers fucking slowly into him and the unbelievable reality that _Eliot wants him, Eliot wants to date him, this is fucking happening._ “M’ just gonna like— nng, _fuck_ , Eliot—”

“You’re gonna what?”

“Fucking— _oh_.” Language is— overrated. Who needs it. All Quentin needs is Eliot’s talented fingers rubbing _just right_ deep inside him. “Dunno.”

“Mm, I see.” Quentin tries to muster the energy to be offended at being teased like this, _now_ , when he’s _very distracted_. He can’t. It’s taking everything in him just to keep his brain from melting out his ears. “Think you can take three for me, baby? You feeling good?”

“I can, I feel so fucking good.” Quentin cries out as Eliot’s fingers stretch him further. “God, can you— please?”

“Can I please what?”

“Can you _fuck_ me, _Eliot_ ,” Quentin snaps, then _yells_ as Eliot curves his fingers inside him, making Quentin’s vision white out at the edges. “God. Jesus.” Eliot keeps pumping his fingers in and out of him, a little faster now. “So fucking good— _please_.”

“Hm. This is going to be a problem.”

“What’s—?” Quentin groans and clutches at the sheets as Eliot pulls his fingers out. “What’s going to be a problem?”

And then Eliot’s rising up behind him, leaning forward— covering Quentin’s whole body with his own, kissing the nape of Quentin’s neck, rubbing one huge palm over Quentin’s chest and belly— shifting so his huge fucking cock pushes blunt and hot against him, _so close_ to where he wants it— “That I can’t deny you anything you want.”

“Want you,” Quentin breathes, and then he doesn’t have any more words, because Eliot’s pushing into him and nothing, _nothing_ , is as important as that.

“Fuck,” Eliot grunts, face still pressed to Quentin’s shoulders— “fuck, Q, _fuck_ — oh my fucking god you take me so— good—”

Quentin can feel exactly what he means: his body _pulling_ Eliot in, inviting him in to stay. He groans wordlessly when Eliot rocks his hips, drawing out a little, but he pushes right back in, further than before, working himself in inch by glorious inch. Every nerve in Quentin’s body is simmering with liquid fire. His cock is so hard the fucking breeze blowing lightly against it feels amazing.

“Gotta get you warmed up a little,” Eliot is saying, deep and strained, like he’s barely able to hold himself back. “Get you used to taking my cock so I can really— _fuck_ —” Quentin can feel the heat of his thighs so close to his ass. Eliot gives him a few experimental thrusts, not getting all the way in but the motion is _so_ good, the continuous drag and stretch, that Quentin shouts. “I need to be so good to you, Q, need to be the kind of boyfriend you _deserve_.”

“I guess like, yeah.” Quentin moans, loud and wanton, as Eliot fucks into him again. “But also you need to be the kind of boyfriend who will fucking— _fuck me through the mattress_ when I want it, so—”

“God, you’re going to fucking kill me,” Eliot says, and his next thrust shocks Quentin’s breath right out of him, deep and fast and _hard_. “That better?”

“Better,” Quentin says, strangled, hoping— and yeah, that makes Eliot do it _again_ , fucking _pounding_ into him, but still just the one stroke before he’s back to slow, agonizing rocking— “More, fuck, fucking— god, El, fill me up—”

A deep moan vibrates through Eliot’s body. Quentin can feel it all along his back where their torsos are pressed together, taut muscles and pounding heartbeats. Eliot palms Quentin’s stiff cock, swearing when Quentin lets out a strangled yell. “Just give me one second, let me be in you like this a little— just a little longer.”

“But—”

“Quentin I’m gonna come if you don’t give me a second,” Eliot says tightly, and once he points it out Quentin can feel it, the tension in his hips, the tremor in his breathing. “It’s just— so good.”

“I know.” Quentin sends a hand questing behind him, his heart soaring, looking for Eliot’s free hand— grabs it, slots their fingers together like they’ve been doing all week so Eliot can guide him, keep him close— and at the same time absolutely _nothing_ like what they’ve been doing all week, because this time they _mean_ it. And also because Quentin’s ass is currently stretched around the thick line of Eliot’s cock while Eliot shivers against him, trying to hold back his orgasm, but that sounds less romantic. “You can be in me as much as you want.” He laughs a little to himself. “I’m not gonna drop any classes, but I can maybe— rework my schedule. Make sure I’m in class when you are too, so when we’re free— any time. Just say the word.”

“All right,” Eliot says, muffled against Quentin’s shoulder. His voice is thick with emotion. “As long as I’ll have plenty of other opportunities—” And he snaps his hips forward _hard_ , driving himself deep into Quentin’s body— “I guess I can get on with fucking you through the mattress now.”

Quentin groans long and loud, squeezing Eliot’s hand one last time and then letting him go so he can get a tight grip on Quentin’s hips as he fucks into him, building speed and power. “Oh f— _fuck_ , _oh_ —”

“Yeah?” Eliot scrapes his teeth over the sweat-soaked nape of Quentin’s neck, then straightens up, and Quentin’s eyes roll back in his head as his forceful thrusts hit right _there_. “Is that enough cock for you?”

“Nn— y-yes and— and no, oh, _god_ Eliot—” Quentin feels his ability to crack jokes deserting him, fucked right out of him as Eliot shoves in over and over. Desire burns hot and greedy inside him, momentarily sated every time Eliot’s thighs smack hard against his ass, building to a fever pitch again in the time it takes him to draw out and thrust back inside. His whole body shakes with it, pleasure spiraling through him, coiling tight where Eliot’s filling in his empty spaces.

“You take me so fucking perfectly—” Eliot breaks off in a harsh moan, fucks into Quentin mercilessly, so hard Quentin can barely breathe— “ _Fuck_ , Q, is this— are you good—”

“Good, good, nn _please_ —”

“Hang on, move back—” Eliot shifts away for a second, almost all the way out, hauls Quentin backward by his hips so his face isn’t so dangerously close to the headboard. “That’s it, baby, Jesus you’re fucking beautiful, squeezing on my cock like that— _oh_ yes, Q, god—”

Quentin squeezes his eyes shut and just revels in sensation, lets it wash all the way through him: the impact of every thrust, the stretch of his hole around the thick base of Eliot’s dick, the bruising, near-painful press of Eliot’s fingers into the soft flesh of his sides. He loses himself a little, then, maybe— everything is pure ecstasy, everything is so, _so_ fucking good, and when he’s aware of linear time again it’s because all of a sudden he’s _so_ close, shoved all the way to the edge by the overwhelming satisfaction of Eliot abandoning all his suave dignity to pound recklessly into Quentin’s body. “El, please,” he grits out, “please come in me, please, _please_ —”

Eliot makes a punched-out noise. “Gonna—”

“Please _please_ —”

“Fuck, _fuck_ —” Eliot shoves in to the hilt and shouts, his torso curling down over Quentin’s back, shaking uncontrollably. “Oh my— _fucking_ god—”

Quentin feels weightless, suspended, floating on the precipice, body twitching towards a peak. He can’t do anything about it, can only breathe, huge gasping breaths— his limbs aren’t obeying his instructions, his arms quivering too hard to finish jerking himself off—

—and as always when he’s floating, Eliot’s there to anchor him, wrapping his arms around Quentin’s chest and hauling him upright until Quentin’s settled back on his thighs, still impaled on Eliot’s cock. Eliot sucks hard at the side of his neck. “Beautiful,” he breathes, “you’re so fucking beautiful for me. How do you want—?”

Quentin whines wordlessly, grabs his wrist and shoves it down, nearly sobs when Eliot takes his cock in hand. His head falls forward as he writhes in Eliot’s grip, and fuck— _fuck_ — the sight of those elegant fingers wrapped around _his cock_ , stroking fast and confident from base to tip, dragging him towards sweet release—

“Come on, Q, I know you’re close, baby—” Eliot’s tongue swipes over Quentin’s neck, his teeth tug on Quentin’s earlobe— “Lemme see it, show me—”

And Quentin is _gone_ , fireworks exploding in his brain and all through his body as he shoots, his orgasm wrenching out of him so hard he chokes on air. Eliot’s arm tightens across his chest, supporting his sagging body, holding him close.

Eliot pulls out carefully, and by the time the last shudders of his orgasm have subsided, Quentin finds himself laid out on his side. He sighs, his throat feeling raw. On the beach beyond their cabana, the seabirds are gone, leaving only their footprints in the wet sand. Probably they got scared off by Quentin’s screaming. Quentin doesn’t feel guilty about that. He can’t feel anything but dreamy and sated, right now, with Eliot’s arm draped heavy over his waist, Eliot’s curls tickling the back of his neck, the two of them the only living creatures for what seems like miles around.

“Was that everything you hoped it would be?” Eliot asks.

Quentin shivers. Does Eliot realize— maybe, maybe not. The parallel might only be obvious to Quentin, who spends his life professionally overthinking every interaction he has. He squirms his way around so he’s facing Eliot, looking right into his eyes. “Yeah. It was.” He grins. “For real, this time.”

Eliot looks confused for a moment, then he laughs, presses forward to kiss Quentin thoroughly. “How often have you lied to me on this vacation, Coldwater?”

“Not as often as you think I have, I don’t think. I’m kinda just— very bad at. Talking?”

A self-deprecating grimace flashes across Eliot’s beautiful face. “And yet somehow, of the two of us, you might actually be better at saying what you want.” 

Quentin pushes further into his arms. “I want _you_ ,” he says firmly. He jabs at Eliot’s chest with one finger. “I want you the rest of this trip, and I want you when we go back.”

“You have me,” Eliot says. His jaw tightens, and he draws Quentin into a tight hug, hooking his chin over Quentin’s shoulder. “As much as you want, for as long as you want.”

_Forever_ , Quentin’s greedy brain insists. Quentin chooses to save that particular declaration for — just a little bit later. That’s third date material at the earliest. Then he has a thought: “I _do_ want you, but I also don’t want to ruin your vacation? Like, more than I already have, I guess. So— whatever you’d normally want to do, with—” His stomach clenches, but he makes himself say it, it’s only fair— “with me or anyone else, you should do it.”

“Mm,” Eliot says thoughtfully. “I’m not really feeling the need to fuck a lot of randos, at this point. Wonder why that is.”

Quentin lets out a breath he only sort of realized he was holding and buries his face in Eliot’s neck. He inhales the scent of him: salt air and almond oil conditioner, sex and sweat. “Me neither,” he mutters, muffled.

They stay there for a long while, sticky and gross and completely content. A few birds wheel by overhead, calling to each other.

“I will say, though,” Quentin adds, when he’s feeling brave enough, “if you wanted to, like— I mean, we could fuck more people _together_.”

“Yeah?” Eliot disengages from the hug just enough to let Quentin see the wicked glint in his eyes. He brushes Quentin’s hair out of his face. “Should we look Matt up and get you that spitroast you’ve clearly been craving?”

Quentin shivers, imagining Eliot filling him up from behind while he swallows Matt’s dick— he’s sore right now, but there’s that body wash, he can probably go again _today_ , even, if they make it back to the villa soon— “That’s, uh. Yeah, that would be good.” He bites his lip, decides to go for it. “Also um, Margo said— she said this thing, maybe she was joking, though, about— um, me fucking her while you fuck me?”

“She definitely was not joking.” Eliot’s expression goes on a journey that Quentin can’t entirely follow, like he’s having a silent conversation with a little Margo in his head. “All right, never tell Bambi I said this, but I think let’s put that at the bottom of our priority list. We can always make it happen when we go home, after all.”

“True,” Quentin says, although he’s thinking about the huge bed at the villa. His bed in the Cottage isn’t nearly as big, and Eliot’s got a king but like fifty percent of that is taken up by his legs, so— anyway. They have a day and a half left at the fuck festival. Focus. “What do _you_ want?”

“I want to show you off,” Eliot says immediately. “I want everyone here to know this gorgeous boy is mine.” 

“What, like—” Quentin swallows, feeling himself flush. “You want to put me on a leash, or something?”

Eliot looks at him, his mouth dropping open with shock — and probably some amount of arousal, judging by the way his eyes trace down to Quentin’s neck. “That wasn’t my _first_ thought,” he says shakily. “I was thinking more like going dancing again. Maybe, _maybe_ , using one of the performance tents.”

“I don’t know if I have more dancing in me,” Quentin says honestly. “And the performance tents are like— it’s a lot of attention focused on, on the people performing.” He can see Eliot’s face falling a little even as he nods his understanding. “So maybe— we can have sex anywhere in the Green zone, right? So we could just— go to one of the pools, or wherever, and I could suck your cock?”

Eliot stares at him. “You draw the line at dancing,” he says slowly, “but you’re fine with anyone who happens to wander by seeing you with my dick in your mouth?”

“I mean, _fine_ is like— it’s, it kinda scares the hell out of me. But in a good way. And if we’re just out and about, there _might_ not be people looking at me, like, who knows.”

“Ah, I see. Plausible deniability.”

“Yeah.” Quentin buries his face against Eliot’s shoulder again. “I’m, uh. You might have noticed I’m a big fan of that.”

Eliot laughs. “I’m so very glad you chose to stop denying, plausibly or otherwise. I found it very inspiring.” He cups Quentin’s face in one huge hand, draws him in for a kiss. It’s slow, soft, lazy— and unbelievably thrilling.

“You don’t have to blow me in public if it scares you,” Eliot says quietly when they eventually come up for air. “Honestly, I think I could be satisfied just getting you all dressed up and taking you out to dinner. I want everything with you, not just sex.” He caresses Quentin’s cheek with his thumb. “But you’re also welcome to suck my dick at literally any moment the urge strikes you.” 

“Uh-huh,” Quentin says. “So, speaking of that— how much time do we have before we have to time travel back? Because, uh—”

“Enough,” Eliot says, laughing, kissing the side of his head. “Definitely enough.”

“We’re going to be late, baby.”

“I know, hang on one second—” Quentin drops Eliot’s hand so he can hop back a step and retrieve his errant flip-flop. 

“We’re cutting it way too close,” Eliot says, an edge in his voice. “We can’t get complacent about these things.”

Quentin squints into the fiery pinks and oranges of the setting sun. “We’re fine. We were later last year.” He grabs Eliot’s outstretched hand so they can get moving again. “And honestly, as much as I love this, we’ve done it five years running. I think we’d survive if we had to skip one year.”

“Mm, I strongly disagree.”

“What, is there like, a prize? For years of consecutive attendance with the same partner? Are you trying to win the fuck festival?”

“ _Trying_? I’m the undisputed champion.” Eliot pulls him in close, plants a kiss on the top of his head.

As they walk across the beach, a familiar static fills Quentin’s head, and he reaches up to undo his mental wards. The buzzing fades, and he sees the glowing, golden lights of Arima Bikotea shining at him from the far side of the inlet. He lets out a breath and looks up at Eliot, who is beaming down at him.

“Toldja we’d be fine,” Quentin says, grinning, and then laughs as Eliot draws him in with his strong arms and a wisp of telekinesis, kisses him long and slow and tender.

“Brat,” Eliot murmurs when he finally lets Quentin come up for air. “This is what I get for letting you drag me to a fucking _workshop_ on the most important day of the festival.”

“Oh, shut up, I know you’re dying to use that new edging spell on me the second we get in there.” Quentin pushes up onto his tiptoes, kisses Eliot on the end of his nose.

“We’ll see what the magic has to say about that.” Eliot threads their fingers together once more, and they walk hand in hand up the broad steps into the building.

There’s the same aura of hushed anticipation in the room as always. They find seats at the bar, and as Eliot orders a couple of drinks, Quentin glances around the room. There, in the corner, a couple of younger women are clinging to each other, obviously struggling to keep their excitement and anxiety in check. Quentin grins to himself. They’re in for a fun night. And it only gets better, after that first year, when you have _some_ idea of what to expect from the evening.

Only some, though. The spell — when it says _deepest_ desires, it really means it. It always finds a way to surprise.

The familiar deep voice rings out through the space, and Quentin puts his head on Eliot’s shoulder, waiting for the tug of magic deep in his core. Their archway this year is hung with elegant black drapes swirling with silver embroidery and studded with little crystals. Their door is the same, though: simple and stately, with a little card that reads, as always,

_Eliot & Quentin_

“Ready, baby?” Eliot murmurs, pressing a kiss to the shell of Quentin’s ear.

Quentin tips his head back, turns it so he can catch Eliot’s mouth in a sidelong kiss. “Always.”

They step in, and the door clicks shut behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch 12 Acknowledgements: Thank you thank you THANK YOU to so many people:
> 
> [freneticfloetry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freneticfloetry/pseuds/freneticfloetry) for the initial plot bunny;
> 
> [RedBlazer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedBlazer/pseuds/RedBlazer) for cheer-reading and wonderfully filthy ideas;
> 
> [PotteredUp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotteredUp/pseuds/PotteredUp)'s wonderful fic [Take Me To Encanto Oculto](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25348828) for inspiring the color-coded zone system (I should have done this acknowledgement like ten chapters ago!! I'm so sorry!!);
> 
> the entire Peaches & Plums discord for yelling about this fic every time I updated it;
> 
> all the other wonderful writers (acknowledged throughout the fic) from whom I took various fun little pieces of worldbuilding;
> 
> the amazing [Sylph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akisazame/pseuds/akisazame), beta and cheer-reader extraordinaire, patient recipient of lots of anxious DMs, valiant slayer of unnecessary dialogue tags, inventor of group Push, without whom I would be entirely lost;
> 
> and every one of you lovely readers and commenters for putting up with me torturing you with slow burn and miscommunications so these dumbasses could EARN their happy ending.


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